


Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask

by FieryPen37



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Ambiguous Rhaegar, Canon-Typical Sex Age, Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/M, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting to Know Each Other, Idiots in Love, It's Game of Thrones, Jon and Dany travel the world together, Light Bondage, Marriage Proposal, Oral Sex, Passion, Semi-Public Sex, Smut with Ribbons, Targaryens - Freeform, They Are Sixteen, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Young Love, canon-typical incest, did I mention smut?, duh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-06-15 21:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15421683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: A young Jon Targaryen, lonely prince of Westeros, meets a lovely silver-haired stranger at a masque.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this fluffy masque drabble turned into a much longer drabble of smut. Enjoy!

Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask 

 

The whole thing was the Lord Hand’s idea. _Liven up these drab noblemen’s lives. Have a bit of fun, for gods’ sake!_ Humor was not something that came naturally to him, but he couldn’t resist Tyrion Lannister’s ribald, acerbic humor. A pair of outcasts, the two of them. Tyrion for his size, and Jon for his unlucky birth.

“A masque, my lord father? And . . . all of us are invited?” Jon said, looking up Tyrion’s scroll. King Rhaegar Targaryen’s hard violet eyes flicked over Jon, and in them Jon saw what he always did: disappointment tinged with sadness. Rhaegar strummed the strings of his lyre, the music soft and sobbing.

“Yes, Jon. All. You might enjoy yourself. There is a certain freedom in not knowing partner’s face when you dance,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. And that had been that.

Jon endured the tailors fussing over him, stepped on Rhaenys’ toes during dancing practice, feigned interest as Tyrion bustled about preparing the Red Keep for a feast to celebrate the dawning of spring. Artisans rushed, foreman hammered, guards cursed and spat. A breeze blew through the keep, bearing the sweet scents of baked treats from the Street of Flour. Already the sun shone warmer.

“You needn’t scowl so, my prince,” Tyrion said, waddling with surprising speed across the great hall, “we’ll have you back to your frozen wastes by the end of the fortnight.”

The words made Jon smile. His lord father suffered from bouts of melancholy. On one particularly pervasive occasion, he’d ordered seven-year-old Jon to be sent away north, to his mother’s family in Winterfell. His uncle, Lord Eddard Stark and his wife the Lady Catelyn welcomed him amongst their passel of children. Jon pushed away the rush of homesickness at the thought of the clean scent of Winterfell’s pines, the crunch of snow beneath his horse’s hooves, the faint musical trickle of water in the walls singing him to sleep.

“I suppose so,” he said, “though do you think all the Great Houses will come?”

Tyrion’s eyes were green as glass, and just as sharp. The question was innocuously meant, but Jon kicked himself as he pondered it. He’d been away from King’s Landing too long, and forgotten that every word was parsed and peeled apart to discern every possible meaning. A deft hand at such interactions, Tyrion shrugged.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if your intrepid aunt made an appearance,” Tyrion said.

Jon’s eyes widened, excitement crackling through him. Daenerys Stormborn was another name for the plague within the halls of the Red Keep. His lord father would not speak of her, but his Kingsguard companion Ser Barristan told tales of her often and her adventures across the eastern world.

“What is she like?”

“By all accounts, a true daughter of her house. A performer of miracles to be sure.”  

Jon glanced at Tyrion, dubious.

“Careful with those, you idiot! They’re worth more than your life!” Tyrion shouted at one of the foremen cleaning the dragon skulls lining the walls. Balerion the Black Dread loomed behind the Iron Throne, his lower jaw hung wide, as if to swallow any spectator.

“And you, we need--” Tyrion broke off as one of the musicians complained about the size of the hall.

Jon’s eye turned back to the dragon skull hanging over the Iron Throne. If there was a Targaryen unluckier than Jon, it would be Daenerys. Grandmother Queen Rhaella died in childbed—in that they were the same. A Targaryen loyalist Ser Darry carried the infant princess off to Essos thinking the war was lost. But Rhaegar quelled the rebellion by killing Robert Baratheon at the Trident. Ser Darry died—leaving Daenerys penniless and alone in Essos. Given how aspish and cruel his uncle Viserys grew into, Jon wished the idiot knight had taken the other sibling.

“Is it true she wed a Dothraki khal? Do you really believe she has a _dragon_?” Jon asked. Tyrion’s grin lightened his squashed features.

“Whispers from Essos are two-thirds lies, my prince.”

“But do you?” Jon persisted. Tyrion clapped a hand on Jon’s elbow.

“For what it’s worth, I think it’s the truth. And gods help all of us if she comes looking for revenge. I don’t think Westeros can withstand another Dance.”

Tyrion’s words followed him throughout the day as he skulked about the Red Keep trying not to be noticed. Viserys was always spoiling for a fight, and even his half-siblings Rhaenys and Aegon despised him on their mother’s behalf. Unlucky and unwanted, prone to sullen silences, his words thickened by a northern affectation, Jon hardly felt like a Targaryen prince. Maybe he really was a wildling changeling like Aegon said.

Finally, it was time to bathe and dress for the masque. Servants fluttered about, squawking like jays. One yanked his wild hair into a semblance of order. Another tutted over his bitten fingernails. A third tisked over his beard stubble. It was fashionable in King’s Landing to be clean-shaven and wear their hair long and loose. Heavy floral perfume made his nose sting. Their chatter washed over him. Another Targaryen quality he did not possess was a love of finery and flamboyance. As such, his tunic and trousers were simple black. The quality was impeccable, and there was a hint of gold and silver embroidery on the cuffs, but otherwise, Jon was as plain as a sparrow. The mask he chose was similarly understated. Black felt, covering his face from brow to upper lip, trimmed with silver thread.

“There you are, Your Grace,” the manservant said, straightening the silver dragon brooch at his breast, three silver dragons linked in a ring. 

“Thank you,” Jon said, breathing a sigh of relief when they at last left him be. Jon peered at his reflection in the murky mirror. He looked like a shadow made flesh. His eyes, a dark grey like his mother’s, were a lone speck of light. Riding and training with his cousins and Kingsguard made him lean and muscular. Without the distinctive silver Targaryen hair, he looked like any other well born man at the masque.

“Father was right. It is a freeing thought,” he said.

The hall was alive with color and music. Banners from every house lined the walls. Clusters of men and women chattered in tight groups along the feasting table. Dragons leapt and flew on tapestries, they snarled on sconces and flatware. The bards played with lyre and pipes and tambour in a lively tune Jon didn’t recognize. The long table groaned with food: a roast boar with a pear in its mouth, ribbons of bacon, heaps of steaming bread, mashed tubers with gravy, wilted greens, roast mushrooms, sugared plums, blood pudding and honeycakes. A servant pressed a fluted glass of sweetwine into his hand.

“For you, ser,” the young man said. There was no recognition in his polite gaze. Jon murmured his thanks, taking his seat some distance from the head of the table. His lord father held court at the head of the table, the Hand at the foot. Candlelight blazed, lighting the room in soft gold. Moths danced among the wavering flames in the rafters. Queen Elia, his half siblings, and uncle Viserys clustered near the head of the table, a gleam of gold and silver amidst the drab. Lord Tyrion brushed by with a whisper: “My prince.”

“Father said I had to come, not where I must sit,” Jon murmured, burying his nose in his wine. The sweetness slid down his throat like red silk. On his fifteenth nameday last year, Robb had snuck a horn of ale for them to share. This wine was stronger by half, and settled hot in his stomach.

“How subversive of you,” Tyrion said with a wink, “Enjoy.”

A steward called a beginning to the feast, and ravenous, Jon glutted himself on the rich fare and sweetwine. To his left sat a gaunt Reacher lord who wheezed into his gold horned mask. A smear of gravy darkened the silk above his lip. The golden centaur with a bow on his breast named him a Caswell of Bitterbridge. To his right was a woman, comely in shape and about his age from what he could tell. Jon was grateful the mask hid his burning cheeks. She was Crownlands by accent. Dark eyes gleamed from behind a red silk mask, embroidered to mimic flames. Talk was banal and polite during dinner. Cousin Sansa always said he was a boorish dinner partner, like every boy unable to talk about anything besides horses and warfare.

When the world began to tip at the edges, he summoned a steward to serve him water. It wouldn’t do to embarrass himself on his first feast home. Mercifully, his lord father called an end to the feast with his clear, powerful voice. He stood and offered a hand to Queen Elia, to the sound of an elegant, sedate tune. Alone, glittering in cloth of gold and black, they danced. Fair and dark, Targaryen and Dornish, melancholy and seething. Jon’s eyes hurt to look at them.

“Such a beautiful man . . . so lucky to have such a king . . . Targaryen madness . . . his sister, Aerys’ daughter . . .” the words washed over him.

Jon pushed off from the feasting table, unable to name the beast that snarled in his chest. Poor motherless Jon. _Never forget what you are,_ Tyrion often told him. Well what was he? Unloved, certainly, save perhaps by his mother’s kin. With two heirs by his first wife and two trueborn siblings of king’s blood, Rhaegar had no need of him. He was a walking, talking reminder of the love he lost.

Jon burst onto the terrace, drawing his first deep breath since leaving Winterfell. He paced in tight, angry strides, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The air was thick with the city’s choking smells, but cold and fresh. He gulped down deep breaths, sweat cooling beneath his heavy finery.

“Are you well, ser?” a female voice said. Jon stopped, his face aflame. Gods, he hadn’t even realized he wasn’t alone before rushing off in a snit. The woman’s face was obscured with a white mask, scrolled in gold, and he caught the glint of pale hair. 

“I . . . I’m fine,” Jon said, suddenly dizzy. He staggered against the railing. Her hands gripped his arm, her hands startlingly warm against the early spring chill. Jon was tempted to shake off her grip, but it felt nice. Leaning against the rail, he slid down to a squat.

“You’re not. Sit! Shall I fetch a healer? Are you ill?” her voice was clipped, imperious. It amused him. Jon bit his lip to stifle a giggle. Her warm white hands tugged at his collar, hovered anxiously over his mask. He straightened the mask, looking deep into her pale eyes lit by wan moonlight. He grasped her hand gently. Heat bloomed from the contact, a heady rush that almost made him swoon again. Gods, Viserys would mock him unceasingly if he saw.

“It’s a masque, my lady. Needn’t ruin it just yet, hmm?” he said, rising to his feet.

“Very well,” she said, “my name is Doreah.” _Doreah_ , he formed the name silently. It had such a sweet ring to it.

“I’m Jon, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, groping for the prince’s manners dinned into him since birth. Not relinquishing his grip on her hand, he threaded her arm through his. Doreah fell in step with him. She walked so close, he could feel the press of her hip through the shimmering fall of her gown. A wealthy noblewoman, he thought, from her speech, dress, and carriage. The accent he couldn’t place. Could she be from the Free Cities?

“Shall we go inside? Did you miss the feast?” he asked.

“No, I just needed some air. The vapors in such places are stifling. We can go in if you feel well enough,” she said. Jon’s back went up for a moment, then he heard the note of teasing, see the faint curve of her lips. Such beautiful full lips. He couldn’t think of her lips, or speculate on the supple body beneath that dress. His cock thickened in interest, and he fixed his thoughts on cold rain and Queen Elia’s disapproving frown until it abated. Jon reassembled his twisted thoughts, groping for words. Clearing his throat, Jon leaned close conspiratorially, so close his lips brushed the pale curl above the shell of her ear. 

“E—Embarrassing as it is, I’ve had a bit too much wine. This is my first feast home,” he whispered. To his delight, Doreah gave a subtle, delicious shiver.

“Mine too,” she said.

Jon nodded politely to the stewards who opened the door for them. Heat, light and noise washed over them. His eye devoured full color details of his bewitching companion. The moonspun silver of her hair shocked him, but he schooled his reaction. Perhaps she was Lysene. Woven into intricate braids, her hair fell to the small of her back. Her eyes behind the white mask were deep indigo blue. Those lips, so full and pink set on milk-white skin above a pointed chin. Her long-sleeved, full-skirted gown was of fine grey silk, embroidered with blue thread in intricate twisting patterns. Jon had no eye for such things, but he quite liked how it clung to her bosom and hips. He admired her shape, petite and curved. Though not much taller, her neat size made him feel strong.

“How long have you been away from King’s Landing?” he asked. Her head cocked in askance, a gleam of speculation in her eye.

“A long time,” she said.

“Me too. Years,” he said, with a glance around.

The musicians roared a lively tune, rings of dancers twisted and leapt. Laughter held an overbright edge, but at the end of winter, every man alive wanted to celebrate. A noticeable absence was any Lannister other than Tyrion. Scandal hounded the once-glorious house of the West. Years ago, Tywin Lannister died of apoplexy upon finding Jamie Lannister the Kingslayer in bed with his own sister, Cersei, who was to be wed to Oberyn Martell. Stripped of his knighthood, Jamie fled for the Wall and the safety of the Night’s Watch. Shamed and penniless, Cersei took refuge with the silent sisters. _Once bride of the Lion, now bride to the Stranger,_ bards jested. Still, some said Jamie Lannister stoked the burning embers of rebellion in the far North.

“Is the feast all you hoped it would be?” Doreah asked.

“It is now.” The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. _Fatuous fool!_ Doreah ducked her head, coy and lovely. Jon found himself smiling. The feeling felt strange on his face, but he liked it. He liked this warm, fizzing feeling even better, like sparkling wine.

“Would you like to dance?” Doreah asked. A cold wave washed over him, Rhaenys’ disgusted face floating in his mind’s eye. 

“Ah . . . I don’t . . . I’m--” Doreah rolled her eyes, grabbing his arm.

“Come _on_!” Doreah said, impatient.

Hands entwined, they leapt into the dance, twirling with another pair. The throb of tambours sank into his bones, the smell of sweat and perfume filled the air. Jon only had eyes for Doreah. They twined hands, circling, broke off to clap, then reverse the circle. Each touch seared him. Her hand, her forearm, the press of her hip against his as they turned. She was elusive as smoke and sweet as wine, her blue eyes flashing behind the mask. Jon’s heart pounded along with the drumbeat in his chest. He wanted to chase her down, ravish her, claim her. Gods, was that all it took to lose oneself? A few kind words, a dance?

They finished the dance, and the next and the next. Breathless and streaming sweat, they broke off to quench their thirst and nibble sweetmeats. Doreah had an endless commentary on the party’s guests that had Jon laughing aloud. Despite the delight he found in her, Jon was burdened by melancholy. It was obvious she didn’t know his full name or title, just as he didn’t know hers. The idea of the masque was to enjoy anonymity. The hot magic would end once she knew. Jon set such thoughts firmly aside. He would gobble up the joy of it while it lasted, and pour over it in the loneliness that followed.

The next dance was by far his favorite. Partners danced close. His hand on her hip tingled, seared by the warmth of her skin beneath fine layers of silk. With a shout, the women leapt into their partner’s lifting arms. Gods, the press of her weight, the slow slither back to the ground. He was hard as brass, lost in her wide blue eyes. Circling and lifting, touching and circling again and again. By the time the music died away, he was half-mad with lust. White teeth delicately bit the plushness of her lower lip. Jon bit back a whimper.

“Doreah, I--” he rasped. The sentence dangled, unfinished. Her hands flexed in handfuls of his jerkin, her fingernails kitten sharp. They had stopped dancing, buffeted by eddying swirls of silk and leather.

“Jon--” Gods, he wanted to taste the lips that formed his name. He wanted to make this good feeling last and last.

“This way,” Jon said, folding her hand into his. The maze of the Red Keep was familiar to him. The heat and music of the hall faded away like a dream. They dodged harried servants and trysting couples, climbed stairs and loped down passageways.

“Jon? Jon, where are you taking me?” Doreah asked with the slightest quaver in her voice.

Jon stopped dead in the musty hall at the base of the Tower of the Hand, panting. Flickering torchlight washed her in red and gold, her eyes lost in the shadow of the mask. Her hand was warm in his, her grip strong and trusting. Jon frowned, swaying a little. Fear slicked his skin like dirty ice.

“I thought we could . . . I thought maybe with a bit of privacy . . .” he trailed off, with a tight, helpless shrug. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Thinking with his cock instead of his brains! She was probably married. Even if she wasn’t, what he proposed so casually would rob her of her virtue. Loose women gave in, and evil men took. He’d probably terrified her, yanking her about and snarling. _Perhaps just a kiss?_ He was close to begging for it.

Jon sank to his knees, cupping her captive hand between his. Her plush lips were pressed into a thin line, the mask white and mute. He wanted to tear off the mask to see the rest of her face.

“Forgive me, Doreah. I didn’t intend to frighten you. I just . . . you’re so lovely. Perhaps we can find a place quiet to talk. Only talk, I’ll swear a holy oath before the gods if you wish it.” Her free hand touched his hair gently. He whimpered, longing to nuzzle her belly, breathe in her sweet womanly scent. The mask fell free. Jon looked up, startled.

“Gods, Jon. You’re so handsome,” Doreah whispered, cupping his cheek. The feel of her soft skin against the prickle of his beard made him shudder. Jon closed his eyes, turning into her hand to kiss her palm. No one had ever called him comely before. Aegon had been kissed by the gods with a double measure of masculine beauty. Even Viserys had women fawning over his silver hair and thin, brooding mouth.

“Not even a wart or freckle? You’re perfect,” she teased and he found a laugh.

“Your turn. Let me see you,” Jon said.

Though phrased as a command, he was drowning in pleading. Every young man felt the storms of lust raging, but this was different. He didn’t want release, he wanted _her_. Doreah lifted her hands to loosen the mask. The white mask fell to join his on the floor. Breath rushed from his body, winded as if from a blow. And her beauty was indeed a potent blow. Thick dark blond brows framed large blue eyes, a delicate nose, wide, tilted cheekbones. Faded lines traced her face where the mask pressed. A faint rosy blush clung to the apples of her cheeks. _Gods_.

“Doreah,” Jon whispered, “you’re so beautiful.”

“You mentioned privacy?” she asked, eyes darting down the long, echoing passageway. Jon leapt up, reclaiming his grip on her hand. His cheeks ached under the burden of a sudden smile.

“This way,” he said.

The base of the Tower of the Hand held a receiving hall as its base—deserted now. Lord Tyrion had been deep in Dornish red when he left the great hall, so the upper floors would be deserted as well. In between lay half a dozen bedchambers, blissfully empty. Jon yanked open the door and ushered Doreah inside. The room was dark, only the faintest glimmer of moonlight filtering through the shuttered window. Jon was intensely aware of the rasp of her breathing, the radiating warmth of her. He fumbled on the table for the striker. He managed to light the candle on his third try. Doreah plucked the lit taper from his hand and lit the fire. The flames caught the logs, and soon the room warmed, lit by a cheery golden blaze. Jon sat at the foot of the bed, the mattress thin and lumpy beneath him. Jon fisted his hands on the threadbare coverlet _. Talk. You promised her only talking._ Words were lodged in his throat, choking him.  

An air of restrained shyness filled the thick air between them. Doreah dusted off her hands and stood. Silhouetted by a wash of firelight, Jon could see the shape of her through the flimsy silk of her dress. Jon’s mouth filled with water, his cock throbbing in his trousers. Equally fierce was the cold, hard lump in his belly. 

“Tell me what to do. I don’t want to ruin it,” Jon said, his voice emerging in a harsh rasp. He felt gauche and young and stupid. Lads his age bragged about how many girls they’d trysted with. Jon had never had the opportunity or inclination.

Doreah approached him in four swift strides. She threaded her hands through his hair, yanking it loose from its tie. His wild black curls fell into her hands. A soft shudder raced through him at the delicate scrape of her nails on his scalp.  

“Sshhh. Like this,” she said huskily.

Her lips were as soft as he imagined pressed against his. Jon tilted his head, moving his lips to hers. His hands hovered, unsure of where to land. Her tongue stroked his lower lip, hot and wet. Jon bit back a moan, opening his mouth wider to let her taste him. Mm, she tasted of sweetwine and honeycakes. Pleasure trickled from his mouth to touch the ache in his chest, the pulse at his groin. Oh, the hot slide of her lips against his, the wet caress of her tongue, the incensed pattern of her breaths, the barest hint of pain as she clenched handfuls of his hair.

Doreah pressed closer, straddling his lap. The groan he uttered was torn from him by the roots. His arms snaked around her, smoothing over her body to memorize her shape. The world whittled down to this bed, this woman. All that existed was the pulse of her heartbeat beneath his hands, the taste of wine on her mouth, the enticing waft of her musk. Jon tried to breathe down the rising tide of pleasure.

Erotic possibilities multiplied in his mind. He wanted to taste her cunt. He wanted her mount up and ride him. He wanted to tie her down so she could never leave and fuck her until neither of them could move. Doreah’s lips moved from his, blazing a path of burning pleasure to the angle of his jaw, the shell of his ear, the side of his neck.

“Jon.” Gods, hearing the husky whisper nearly made him spill in his trousers. His grip tightened convulsively around her, arching his hips to meet the teasing caress of her cunt.

“Doreah,” he whispered. She peeled back far enough to look at him. Limned in golden firelight, her lips puffy from his kisses, cheeks flushed, hair glowing like molten wire, her beauty crushed his chest, his heart.

“My name isn’t Doreah. It’s Daenerys,” she said. Jon blinked, confused.

With arousal pounding like a drumbeat, there wasn’t space enough to breathe, much less think.

“What?”

“My name is Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Aerys and Rhaella.” Upon repetition, the words shivered through him. His mysterious, unlucky aunt, with a mouth made for sin and a body any man would kill for. Jon licked his lips, tasting her.

“My name is Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna,” he blurted. Likewise, she stiffened in his embrace, but did not move away. It brought him some measure of comfort. The surprise stamped on her face was answer enough. She hadn’t known him.

“You . . . you’re . . .” she stuttered, shifting on his lap.

Jon twisted back on the bed so that she lay on her side facing him, trapped within his grip. He didn’t give a single fuck that they were related. How could he, amongst Targaryens? A part of him was amused at the sight of her flustered and fumbling. That was usually his milieu.

“I knew Rhaegar had a son, but I didn’t know it was you. You don’t have the look of our family.” Daenerys caressed his jawline with her thumb, bristling with black beard stubble. Viewed so close, there were flecks of green and violet in the blue of her eyes. Jon offered a bashful grin.

“My mother was a Stark, they say I take after her. I wouldn’t know, she died in childbirth. Gave me my name. Did you come to kill him? My lord father?” Her answer was swift, her thick brows furrowed to a frown.

“No! I have no desire for that ugly throne. He can keep it. I don’t need his help to take care of my own. I came to see my kin for myself, maybe talk to my brother the king. I was summoning the nerve to go inside when I was . . . distracted.” The last was said with a smile. Jon blinked, dazzled by her brilliant white teeth. His arousal hadn’t slackened, his hopeful cock throbbed, yearning for her attention.

“Did you fly here on a dragon?” he asked. Daenerys giggled.

“I would have attracted a great deal more attention if I had,” she said, resting her head in her cupped palm.

“But you _do_ have one? I’ve heard stories,” Jon said, fingers trailing restlessly down her back. It was hard to distinguish between the softness of her skin and the silk she wore.

“I have three.”

“ _Three_?” Jon said, incredulous. Daenerys nodded, preening like a cat drowsing in the sun.

“Drogon, Tessarion, and Vyrmax. They are still hatchlings, about the size of cats, but are growing fast,” she said with the pride of a mother. Questions popped up like mushrooms, but with effort, Jon swallowed them.

“You are a wonder, Do—Daenerys,” Jon said, inwardly cursing his slip of tongue. “Did you prefer Doreah?” Daenerys asked, almost wistfully.

“I prefer _you_ ,” Jon said, tugging her closer. Daenerys bit her lip, watching his face.

“You don’t mind? That we’re . . .”

“See for yourself,” Jon said, taking her hand and laying it over his throbbing cock. Even muted by layers of leather, the touch made his balls ache. She squeezed him gently. Jon jerked into her touch, panting.

“We are Targaryens, Daenerys. Had either of us been luckier, we would have been betrothed already.”

“Are you proposing, nephew?” she whispered, her mouth hovering tantalizingly close. It was meant as a jest, but it rested on Jon’s tongue to do just that. A lovely dream rose fully-formed in his mind’s eye. Riding with her north to show her Winterfell, to meet his cousins, uncle and aunt. Sailing across the sea and traveling the world together.

Instead of answering, Jon nuzzled her nose with his, dipping his head to kiss her. The fresh pleasure of it shocked him, a hot, sweet jolt. Bolder now, Jon rolled her beneath him, resting between her spread legs. He toed off his boots; they landed with a hollow thud on the floor. Daenerys hummed, twining her fingers in his hair as she deepened the kiss. Untried though he was, she was a good teacher. He mirrored the supple movements of her lips, the languid strokes of her tongue. Jon listened to each sigh or hitch as he peppered her throat with kisses. The taste of her skin, salty with sweat, was addicting. He traced the pulse at her throat with his tongue. Daenerys whimpered, arching her hips to grind against his.

The throb in his cock throbbed urgent, almost painful, and he hadn’t even unlaced his jerkin. She must have been of the same mind, for her deft fingers attacked the lacings. With a reluctant groan, Jon broke the seal of their mouths to shrug out of his jerkin and yank the under-tunic over his head. The air was cool, but Jon felt ablaze, as if fevered. Daenerys’ eyes wandered over his torso, her thumb and forefinger plucking at his nipple. It was a surprising bloom of pleasure that made him grunt.

“Gods, Jon. You’re so--” Jon cut her off, bending his head to suckle her nipples through the silk of her dress. A choked cry left her. Mm, he loved the firm texture between his lips, her delicate shuddering. Her hips thrusted against his, urgent and demanding. Jon followed her rhythm, chasing friction. The scent of her musk filled his nose. The longing to taste her cramped in his gut.

“Yes, _yes_ , Jon. Yes, I’m so close . . .” she said with something like a sob.

Incensed by the words, Jon moved to the neglected nipple, feverishly grinding his hips against hers. With a thin cry, Daenerys arched beneath him. Oh gods, _yes_. Jon bit the inside of his lip so hard he tasted blood, scrabbling for control. The sight of her limp with pleasure beneath him, the scent of her musk, the blunted pressure against his cock— _fuck_!

A choked, wordless groan left him as he came spurting in his trousers. His heart pounded, sending fresh waves of satisfaction surging through him. Jon collapsed atop her, burying his face between her breasts. Humiliated tears pricked the backs of his eyes, his cheeks aflame. She hadn’t even touched his cock and he’d come like a callow boy. Daenerys’ hands petted his head, her movements sinuous beneath him. Her voice a deeper vibration against his ear.

“If that’s what you can do with all your clothes on, there might be naught left of me but ash come morning,” she said. Jon lifted his head to look at her wonderingly. Her smile was heartbreakingly tender.

“There is no shame in pleasure. I’m going to enjoy rousing you again,” she said, with a heavy-lidded look that made his spent cock twitch. Jon’s heart lurched in his chest.

“You are a wonder, Daenerys,” he said, moving up to kiss her, sweet and soft. He loved the different flavors of kisses, the silky feel of her hair between his fingers. Jon flicked his tongue along the roof of her mouth, making her purr. Daenerys’ fingernails prickled on his shoulders, his back—a faint pain.

“Gods, your _mouth_ ,” Daenerys murmured, nibbling his lower lip, then laving the spot with her tongue to alleviate the sting. If he fumbled with the lacings of her dress, Daenerys was too busy drinking in his kisses to notice.

It may have been moments or hours, tangled in kisses and touches as they shed the last of his clothes. Jon longed to stretch out every moment with her. Tomorrow she might melt away into shadow, lost to him. Daenerys straddled his lap and yanked her shift of her head. Jon watched, salivating. In moments, his cock was back to full salute, empurpled and aching. The glory of her would kill him, he was certain. Red-gold firelight washed her in its colors. Daenerys looked like a fey, wild thing. He wanted to pet and kiss those high soft breasts, adorned with pebbled rose-pink nipples. He wanted to nuzzle the soft hollows of navel and hip. He wanted to lick and suckle the sweet secrets beneath the dark blond curls of her sex.  

“Daenerys,” Jon said, his voice almost a wheeze. His hands cupped her hips, sliding around to squeeze the ripe curves of her buttocks. Jon flexed his hips, his throbbing, leaking cock dragging in the silky soft skin of her hip. His heart pounded like a drumbeat. Despite coming harder than he ever before only minutes ago, the hunger in his belly was raw and ravenous.

“Touch me, Jon. Please.” Jon dragged in a deep breath, feeling thick and clumsy and stupid in the face of her breathtaking loveliness.

“Show me. Show me how to please you,” Jon said.

Daenerys took his hand and trapped it over her mound. His first two fingers moved, tentative and shy, tangling in the coarse hair, petting the seam of her sex. She dripped nectar, like an overripe peach splitting with sweetness. Jon swallowed hard. That rich, musky smell, the silken slide of her. Daenerys guided him to a stiff nubbin of flesh, ruby red beneath the concealing hair. He followed the circular kneading motion, feather-soft, watching rapt as her face slackened with pleasure. Daenerys rocked against his hand, crying out as he slid one finger inside. Oh gods, so snug and slick. With a broken moan, Daenerys’ release crashed over her.  Jon eased out, devouring the taste of her juices. Salt and sweet, musk and glory.

Jon surged up, flipping her beneath him on the bed.

“Say it,” Jon said, poised over her. Gods, the delicate petals of her sex flushed and red, glistening . . . Pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, chin and lips red with stubble-burn Daenerys looked thoroughly debauched. Her swollen lips worked, brow puckered in confusion.

“Tell me you want me.” _Tell me you love me. Don’t leave me._ Jon wanted that more than his next breath, but it would be a fool’s thing to voice. Fool he was, for Daenerys Stormborn.

Daenerys twined her arms around his neck, taking his lips in a biting kiss.

“I want you, Jon. I want your cock inside me,” she breathed against his lips.

“Yessss,” Jon said, easing his cock inside. Ohgodsohgodsohfuckfuckyes Hotter than fire, slick and wet, bathing every inch of him in scalding heaven. He was there again, teetering on a knife’s edge.  Braced above her on his knuckles, Jon quivered, drenched in sweat. Daenerys squirmed beneath him.

“Jon? Are you well?” she asked, wearing a puzzled frown. He pried open his clenched jaw to rasp: “Stay still.” Daenerys rose up on her elbows to touch his face. Inner muscle shivered along his length.

“For fuck’s sake woman, stay still! I’ll come!” The smile that curved her lips was wicked.

“Oh yes. I want that,” she said, rocking beneath him. Jon quivered, of pleasure and laughter.

Jon thrust in long, slow strokes. So good. So _fucking_ good. Daenerys met each stroke with a thrust of her hips, peppering his throat with her kisses. Heat poured off him. Daenerys cried out, clutching his shoulders, his buttocks, raking his back with her nails. Jon snarled, his lip curling as his thrusts grew faster, harder. They were lost in the madness of passion, lost in fierce, base fucking. Twisting and snarling and grunting. Jon leaned on his elbows, thrusting fast as he took her mouth in a marauding kiss. He wanted to claim her in any way he could. Her moan tingled against his lips.

“Gods yes. Just like that!” the words rose to a shriek as she came around him, milking his cock. The sensation finished him. Jon cupped her hips hard, thrusting once, twice more before roaring his own release.

Some time later, Jon dragged his eyes open. Gods, a blast of white-hot pleasure sizzling up his spine, awareness of only her body and his, flying into that dark, private space joined with her. The pound of his heart was slow and steady, aftershocks making his toes flex and curl. A tug of sweat-damp skin and he peeled his face from between her breasts. At the movement, her delicate eyelids fluttered open. Daenerys smiled, lifting her head to kiss him gently. He knew he was crushing her with his weight, but his muscles refused to obey him, instead clinging to her softness and warmth. The fire had ebbed to a bed of dim orange coals, and the chill crept in. Jon couldn’t convince himself to care.

“Is it always like that?” Jon asked, his throat hoarse and dry. Daenerys’ idle fingers combed his hair.

“I don’t know,” Daenerys said. Jon blinked. “Had you . . . I thought you had . . .”

“I was wed to a Dothraki khal. He died of his wounds after a battle. He wasn’t a . . . considerate lover.” A sour burning rose in his belly. He wished he could have faced down the khal himself and freed her from a rough, idiot bastard who didn’t know how lucky he was. After a moment, Jon blurted: “So you liked it?” Daenerys arched a brow.

“Don’t affect false modesty, Jon. It doesn’t become you,” she said primly. A smile stretched his face. Daenerys pecked a kiss on his stubbled chin.

“Was it really your first time?” she asked in a soft voice. Inwardly preening, Jon rolled onto his back, gathering her against his side.

“Aye.”

“A natural, then,” she said with a grin. Jon drifted off to sleep with Daenerys in his arms and a smile on his face.

     


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany relish their time together

Chapter 2

 

 

Her slumber was so deep and restful, she woke in a muddle. Daenerys frowned, blinking into a deep well of velvet darkness. Curled on her side, with a warm, muscular arm draped across her belly. Where . . .?  It all came flooding back: leaving her children in Rakharo’s care in Pentos, plucking up the bravery to cross the Narrow Sea, riding with Missandei and three bodyguards to King’s Landing, the masque, Jon. Gods, _Jon_. If she hadn’t fallen for him already, she’d certainly stumbled. His awkward charm, the delight of his smile, his earnestness, his honest passion.

_Is it always like this?_ Daenerys didn’t know. The depths of passion roused by his touch was an entirely novel feeling. One she seized hold of with both eager hands.

Several bodily needs crowded to the fore: a grumbling belly, a full bladder, a dry throat. Daenerys slipped from Jon’s embrace. A shaft of moonlight slipped through the shutter to illuminate a thin span of his face. Long dark lashes curled in slumber, his wild black curls, the angle of his cheekbone. Daenerys kneaded the ache in her chest. After years of dreading returning home and meeting her brothers, Jon came as a surprise. Padding barefoot on frigid flagstones, she wiggled into her shift and gown, unwound her hopelessly snarled braids, attended her needs in the privy closet, and stoked the dying fire to the music of Jon’s soft snores.

The honeycakes were a distant memory, and the sideboard held naught but dust and moth-eaten napery. She dithered, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. There was a grace to the way he was knit together, beauty stamped in the slope of his muscles. Before she could check the impulse, Daenerys bent and pressed a kiss to his temple. She slipped from the room, and spent several fruitless minutes wandering darkened corridors before she retraced their steps. She scooped up her forgotten mask, dented on one side and smeared with dust.

The masque was still in full swing. The voices and barking laughter rose to a dull roar, bouncing off the rafters in mocking echoes. The room seethed with revelers. Dancing, talking, eating. The heat was a moist press smelling of sweat, spilled ale, and grease. Her eye darted about, searching for the gleam of silver and finding none. The royal family must have retired for the night. Daenerys didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. A harried servant hurriedly piled food on a tray for her. Tender slices of roast boar and pear, crisp bacon, a dish of peppered goat cheese, slices of potato fried in the drippings, mashed tubers, a tureen of ginger soup with watercress and almonds, four loaves of warm brown bread, honeycakes and candied almonds—she feared she might not be able to carry it all. She felt the probing of the servant’s puzzled glance. What noblewoman would carry her own tray, regardless of the hour?

The tray proved a manageable, if awkward burden as she made her careful way back to the Tower of the Hand. The fire crackled and murmured to itself, and Daenerys basked in the glimmer of its warmth. Essos’s warm spring felt very far away. Jon surged upright in bed. Her heart leapt to her throat. His face was inscrutable as she set the tray on the sideboard, kneading her wrists.

With a rustle of bedclothes, he leapt up, naked as his nameday. Daenerys watched him warily. Had he wished to sleep alone? Did he want her to lea--? Jon yanked her into a tight embrace with a harsh sigh. Daenerys wound her arms around him, breathing in the spicy tang of his scent.

“I . . . I thought you’d gone,” he said, his breath blooming warm above her ear. Something broke within her, the last crumbling of resistance. She basked in his sturdy warmth, the sleek shape of him.

“No. I . . .” _I don’t want to leave without you,_ she wanted to say, but they were voiced from the desperate, lonely depths of her soul.

“I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye,” she said.

Jon peeled back to look at her, with his soulful, searching grey eyes. Shadow and firelight fought for purchase of his clear cut features. A study in contrasts. Wild dark hair and milk pale skin. Hard muscle and smooth skin. A mouth made for sin and a virigin’s shyness.

“You still haven’t spoken with my lord father, or Uncle Viserys. You wanted to meet them. I can introduce you tomorrow,” he said, the eager words tumbling out. Tomorrow. Later. Staving off the reality of that goodbye. Daenerys felt a smile stretch her face, a mirror to his.

A small voice in her head warbled that it was madness to linger in Jon’s bed, to stumble and fall over her unexpected and growing feelings for him. But after her pained, desperate cleaving to Drogo, often only to have him leave her throbbing and unsatisfied, then later a soot-smeared widow, passion with Jon was vastly preferable. Honest and tangible.

“That’s right. They’ve retired for the night,” she said.

Of their own will, Daenerys’ hands molded to the shape of him, so warm, his body hair chafing her palms. Daenerys tilted close, feeling the jut of his swelling erection teasing the silk of her dress.

“Besides, I haven’t had my fill you,” she whispered huskily. Muscles in his throat flexed as he swallowed. The gentle embrace tightened, dragging her flush against him. Daenerys bit her lip, arousal shivering through her like a plucked lyre string. She loved the throbbing heat of his cock pressed up against her belly, his little nipples puckered against the chill.

“Thank the gods,” he said. Jon hovered close, his eyes drinking in her face, resting on her lips.

It was a testament to the happenings of the past hours that he didn’t wait for permission or guidance to kiss her. Though, to his credit, she found the former endearing and the latter potently arousing. No, now those lips moved over hers with new confidence, angling to deepen the kiss. Daenerys clung to his shoulders, losing herself in the dance of lips and tongue. She clenched her thighs against a hot, liquid ache. Jon ducked his head to press kisses along her jaw and throat, a trail of fire throbbing in his wake. His fingers tangled in her hair.

“I like your hair like that. Like a waterfall in the moonlight,” he whispered. Daenerys breathed a soft laugh. The heat of the fire throbbed at her back, sweat beading at the base of her spine.

“You have the soul of a poet. Silver hair must be boring to you. You see it everywhere.”

“Not bored. Not at all. See?” Jon said, trapping her hand on his cock. Oh yes, she reveled in his girth, that vital throb of his heart, the impossibly silky skin over hard flesh. She smoothed the fluid weeping from the head with her thumb, squeezing a long, slow stroke. Black pubic hair tickled the side of her hand. Jon rested his forehead to hers, his warm breath fluttering in harsh pants. Trapped in the deep, wild darkness of his gaze, Daenerys stroked and stroked.

“Mercy, Dany,” he breathed, his voice thickened by a northern accent. The moniker broke the spell. She blinked in startled pleasure.

“Dany?” she said with a smile.

“Aye. D—Do you like it? I call you anything you like, as long as you don’t stop,” he said, his hips flexing into her clasp. Daenerys chuckled.

“I like it. A sweet, simple name. Let’s see how it sounds when I do . . . this,” she said, sinking to her knees in front of him.

Jon’s chest heaved as if he’d run a footrace, eyes wide and ravenous on her. His face was a rigid mask of concentration. His dark, smoky gaze was as potent as a touch, caressing every inch of her.

Daenerys’ skin felt thin and hot, her heart beating loud in her ears. The flagstones were so cold beneath her knees. Jon petted her head gently, in tacit encouragement. Daenerys lapped his thick pink cock from root to tip. Jon’s exhaled breath emerged in a low hiss. His hips arched, eager for more.

“Wait,” Jon said, his voice hoarse. Daenerys stilled, blinking up at him. Color stained his angular cheekbones.

“May I . . . may I see you unclothed?”

The question, so simple and awkwardly phrased, nearly made her laugh. Daenerys tugged dress and shift over her head. The cooler air made her nipples tighten, though the fire’s warmth washed over her back and buttocks. Her discarded clothes padded her knees.

“Oh Dany. Thank you,” Jon said, stroking her hair. The touch loosened hidden knots of tension, and Daenerys stifled the impulse to nuzzle into the caress.

She bent to her task. One hand gripping the base, Daenerys lapped the pearly drop of fluid from his cockhead to taste the salt and heat of him. Jon sucked in a ragged gasp through his teeth. She steadied her free hand on the perfect curve of his buttocks. Jon’s hands cupped her skull, flexing in handfuls of her hair.

Arousal was an eager hungry pulse between her legs. Mm, she rejoiced in the hot weighty feel of him in her mouth, salty fluid seeping. Wet slurping sounds felt amplified in the ringing silence. She sucked him in a slow, steady rhythm, reveling in his whimpers and pleading. Daenerys twitched and squirmed, longing to touch the hot ache between her thighs. The inward ache grew and twisted between their locked eyes.

“Fuck . . . oh gods, Dany . . . _Dany_! Thank you. Thank you! _Yes_ . . . so good.” Daenerys grinned around his girth. She quite liked that nickname. Her hands wandered, cupping the weight of his balls, tender in her palm. She kneaded the flexing muscle of his buttocks. A hungry thought wanted to tease his arse, watch him squirm and sweat and plead. Her Dothraki handmaiden Irri was brimming with advice after her wedding night with the khal. There was pleasure to be found there, if her words were to be believed. If Jon rocked too deep into her throat or clenched her hair a bit too hard, Daenerys took it as a testament of his arousal. The fevered nonsense falling from his lips took on a shriller tone.

“S—Stop. Stop . . . stop,” Jon said.

Perplexed, Daenerys broke suction with a wet pop. Daenerys fought disappointment, yearning to taste his issue. He tasted so good. Clean and masculine.

“Are you sure? You seemed like you were close,” she asked, her voice hoarse. She couldn’t help teasingly lapping the fat weight of his cockhead, radiating heat. Jon shuddered, gasping. It took her a moment to recognize it as laughter. He gave a frantic nod.

“I was. Am. Bedding with you is walking a knife’s edge,” Jon said with a wry smile. Something glowed in his expression, tenderness and affection and—Daenerys’ heart lurched in her chest. He framed her face with his warm, callused palms.

“Thank you. You’ve been so generous with me. I want to taste you too.”

A shudder of arousal raced through her at the thought of his eager, focused attention on the ache between her thighs. Her hands restlessly caressed his thighs, black hair chafing her palms.

“Let me take the edge off for you. Let me taste it.”

Mute and needy, Jon nodded, his cheeks flushed. Daenerys returned to her task readily, suckling him down as deep as she could take him. Hollowing out her cheeks, she found a tight rhythm. His hands trembled framing her head, his thumbs a ticklish caress on her eyebrows and forehead. She cupped his balls, the soft skin taut and hot.

“Dany. Dany, I’m . . . oh _fuck_!” Jon threw back his head, clinging to her as he came. Hot spurts of come flooded her mouth, salt and bitter and male. Daenerys drank it down. Jon staggered, Daenerys pulled off him, steadying him.     

Jon yanked her up into his arms, burying his face in her hair and dragging in deep shuddering breaths. When he looked at her, his eyes shone and swam. There it was again, that soft, searching look. His heart offered up to her in cradled hands, honest and generous. The kiss was as inevitable as the rising of the sun. Their lips met in languid caresses. Jon coaxed her with tender, sipping kisses until she opened like a flower to soft rain. The press of naked skin was heady, his hands sliding possessively over her body. Daenerys fell back into his sure, steady grip.

Together, they lay on the rumpled bedclothes. Her heart leapt against her ribs, she forced her hands to stillness. When had he tipped the scales, twisted her into needy, awkward thing? Crouched over her, Jon’s hot gaze raked over her. He looked like a shadowcat eyeing its prey.

“Dany. Dany,” he whispered, “tell me how.” His brow creased in an endearing frown. The frightened tension in her belly dissolved. This wasn’t Drogo ravaging her, this wasn’t a slaver or hustler trying to violate her. This was Jon. _My Jon_. 

 “Just . . . just like with your fingers. Start slow and light. No teeth,” she said, gulping.

Jon nodded, stretching on the bed between her spread thighs. Daenerys squirmed at the sight of him there, somehow both predatory and innocent. Jon scattered soft, wet kisses on her belly and thighs. Eyes closed in delight, Jon nuzzled the soft skin of her inner thighs. The sweetness of his expression tugged at her heart. His beard stubble prickled in a teasing caress.

“Mm, you smell good,” Jon rasped.

The first lap of his tongue against her slit made her shudder. Jon groaned.

“Oh yes. I love the taste of you. I love--” he broke off with a choked sound, callused hands kneading her thighs. Heat stretched the moment taut between them, significance throbbing in the silence. Daenerys cupped his head, sinking eager fingers into his mussed curls. Jon leaned into the caress and returned to his task under her low-voiced instruction.

“Gentle, up and down mmm . . . _oh_ . . . oh _yes_ , just like that.” His tongue lapped, gentle and soft at her opening. Daenerys panted, pleasure curling warm at each touch, turning sharp and red when he licked her pearl. Her hips canted up toward his mouth, hungry for more.

“Mmm, so good,” Jon whispered. Gods, even the puff of his breath against her sex roused her.

Sensations blurred together, she was lost in the magic of his lips and tongue, the anchoring grip of his hands on her thighs. Pleasure lashed and surged, building, building, _building_ into a massive cresting wave— _Jon_! Color burst behind her closed eyes, muscles spasming. The pleasure intensified, swinging up sharp toward pain.

“Jon, Jon, stop!” she said, shoving at his shoulders. Jon whimpered, straining against her grip.

“More. More, let me have more, please!” Jon begged, his face shining with her juices.

“Jon, breathe. _Breathe_. It—It’s too intense. I need a moment.”

Jon’s grey eyes swallowed her whole, pupils wide and dark. The smile that curved his lips was wicked.

“I see. Once you’ve rested, I want to keep going if that’s all right. I _love_ how you taste.”

Daenerys dragged him up by a handful of his hair for a messy kiss, tasting the musky tang of herself.

“I told you: I haven’t had my fill of you. Not by half,” she said, her voice a low purr. Jon moaned, slithering down her body with a jagged string of kisses. Settled between her thighs, his pleasure-dark eyes met hers.

“More?” he asked, petting her pubic hair tenderly.

“More,” Daenerys said, arching her hips.

Jon attacked her with pleasure. Wide soft laps with the flat of his tongue, gentle kisses interspersed with hard suckling. Daenerys climbed higher and higher only to fall. Pleasure was clenching shudder, roaring in her ears. The pleasure was cruel, only whetting a deeper hunger. She felt wild, greedily grasping for more. His name became a hoarse litany from her lips. Jon’s dark eyes met hers across the heaving, sweat-damp terrain of her body.

“Oh yes, Dany. So good,” he rasped, breathing a tender kiss on her pearl. Daenerys moaned, petting his tangled hair. She mustered a smile.

“A natural, like I said. Come here to me, Jon.”

Jon took his time, his hands smoothing up her sides, nuzzling and kissing the soft undercurve of her breasts. His stubble rasped her skin in a delicious caress. Daenerys twined her limbs around him, languid with pleasure. His mouth tasted of musk and salt, his cock throbbed stiff against her belly. Daenerys twisted him beneath her, grinding against his cock. Jon’s throat flexed as he swallowed hard.

“Gods, you’re so beautiful. Wait, wait. I forgot to ask before. What if . . . what if I get you with child?” he asked, his thumb stroking her hipbone. The words were a dart straight to her heart. Without armor, Daenerys reeled from the blow. 

“That’s . . . that’s not possible. I am . . . barren,” she said, her tongue stumbling over the words. Despite two years as Drogo’s bride, she had not quickened once. After his death, there was talk amongst his bloodriders of sending his defunct wife to the dosh khaleen. Qotho paid for such words, tied to Drogo’s pyre.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said, looking miserable.

Daenerys cupped his cheek, leaning down to kiss him. The sweetness of it struck her vulnerable heart. The kiss spun on, stretching and twisting into something hotter, deeper. Gods, he was so sweet and open and giving. Jon’s hands smoothed down her back, cupping her hips. A longing ache throbbed between her thighs. Daenerys braced her hands flat on his chest, poising her hips over his length. A hot jolt of pleasure surged as his cockhead bumped her pearl, then the sweet silky glide inside—Daenerys broke the kiss to moan. The blunt head felt so good penetrating her. She slid off and repeated the motion, teasing him.

“Yes yes yes, . . . oh fuck,” Jon said, tendons standing out in his throat. His fingertips flexed, dimpling the tender flesh of her hips.

“Dany, please. Take more of it. Take more, please!” he panted between gasping breaths. Daenerys sank down, taking him deep inside. Jon cried out, hands clenching on her hips. Gods, he looked so wanton. Mouth slack, eyes glazed, sweat dewed on the ridged muscle of his body . . . She found she loved teasing him, driving him mad.

Daenerys rocked over him in a sinuous rhythm. Mmm, his cock was made for her. Thick and long, stirring pleasure with each stroke. Both of them were overwrought from prolonged bedplay. Soon they were locked in a hard pace, fucking fiercely. Sweat and heat poured off her, her heartbeat matching the thunder of his. The bed creaked and squeaked beneath them.

Trapped in his hot gaze, Daenerys whimpered, her thighs trembling as she strove for the shimmering edge. Almost . . . oh _gods_! She was lost in the roaring in her ears, in the pleasure burning through her like a ravaging fever. Jon howled beneath her, clinging to her like a shipwrecked survivor as he met his own release. Tangled together in that warm darkness.  

When she could breathe again, Daenerys rolled off him, dragging the tangled blankets over them.

“Dany,” Jon said, kissing her forehead. His grip was jealously tight around her. Daenerys relaxed boneless into his embrace, listening to the music of his heartbeat. The tranquil moment was broken when his stomach gave a loud gurgle. Daenerys giggled, peering up at his profile. His mouth twitched in a reluctant smirk.

“I’m starved,” he said.

“I brought food. That’s why I left before.” Jon grinned, pressing a smacking kiss to her forehead.

“You are a wonder, Daenerys Stormborn.”

He leapt from bed, stretching with catlike grace. Daenerys’ eye slid appreciatively down from the broad shoulders, down the sleek muscle back, raked with her red scratches to the tender rounds of his arse, the hard, hairy strength of his thighs and calves down to his bare feet. He was a picture of masculine beauty. 

“I couldn’t carry any water or wine. There’s none to be had in here,” she said, swathing herself in the sheet.

“I’ll check the hall and Lord Tyrion’s chamber. He always has wine,” Jon said, staggering into his trousers. Jon smiled, capturing her hand to kiss the back.

“I’ll return shortly.”

Daenerys stared at the door as it closed behind him. She thumped flat on the squeaking bed, exhaling a deep sigh. She found more than she bargained for at the masque. She certainly hadn’t expected to fall in love.    

 

~

 

Jon looped a finger through the carafe handle, snagging two chalices with his free hand. One of water, one of Tyrion’s favorite Dornish red. Perfect. _Does Dany prefer red or gold? I wonder if--_

“Look what the shadowcat dragged in,” Tyrion’s wine-slurred voice said. Jon started, his heart thundering in his ears.

“Gods above, you startled me!” Jon said. He was no stranger to seeing Tyrion in every stage of inebriation. Tonight, his cheeks were flushed, mismatched eyes dazed, but his legs were steady. Perhaps on his second carafe, then. Tyrion chuckled.

“Small fellows are the sneakiest. Fit under most tables, in cupboards. I’d make an excellent spy,” he drawled, chortling at his own jape.

“Where’s Shae?” Jon asked.

Though a secret to most save for Jon and he suspected his lord father, Tyrion was a married man. After his father died and his brother took the black, Tyrion was one of the most eligible bachelors in Westeros. Few knew he’d wed a Pentoshi whore named Shae in a secret wedding. She posed as a handmaiden to a minor Crownlands baroness.

“Downstairs. We won’t be disturbing you and your bedfellow,” Tyrion said with an arched brow. Jon felt his cheeks heat. He was painfully aware of his naked chest, bare feet and unlaced trousers. Jon shoved his fingers through his tangled hair. A swift glance toward the stair found it empty.

“Good for you. Sixteen is a good age for bedding. She sounded like she was enjoying it thoroughly.” Jon’s face burned.

“Really?” Jon asked shyly, caught between embarrassment and pride. Tyrion leaned against the column with a wince. His legs always ached after prolonged standing.

“As an authority on feigned pleasure, I can vouch that it sounded genuine,” Tyrion drawled.

Jon couldn’t control the smile stretching his face.

“I think I love her.” The words tumbled out of their own accord. Looking within, Jon found them to be true. This time, Tyrion’s smile was pained.

“That too is natural. Pleasure boils the mind into soup. It will pass.”

Jon frowned. It wasn’t just the bedding, though that alone would be enough for him to chase her across the world. It was the way her smile made his heart flip in his chest, her aura of mystery and authority, how sadness made her eyes darken to the deep blue of the sea and how he longed to banish it. 

“She wishes to return to the Free Cities. I want to follow her.” Voiced aloud, it was foolishness. Like it or not, he as a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

“She must be an exemplary companion to make my broody friend such a romantic. I’d like to meet her,” Tyrion said, with a glance toward the stair. Jon shifted, blocking his view.

“Perhaps another time,” Jon said stiffly. He didn’t want to share Dany with anyone, not yet. They had until dawn together, before the world outside intruded. Tyrion nodded.

“A word of advice from a fellow romantic: guard your heart. It’s more easily fooled than you might think.” Tyrion plucked the carafe of Arbor gold from the sideboard and waddled down the stair.

Jon stared at the fresco of flying birds on the wall, pondering Tyrion’s words. The joy he found with Daenerys would be worth it. Jon leapt up the stairs two at a time, his heart in his throat, half-afraid he’d be left behind . . . 

“Come try this boar, it’s delicious!” Daenerys said as he nudged the cracked door open with his shoulder. Jon’s smiled, relief loosening taut muscles. Her answering grin made warmth bubble in his chest. Gods, she was gorgeous: sitting cross-legged on the rumpled bed wrapped in a sheet, hair a delightful silver tumble.

“I’m starved,” Jon said.

The tray held a bounty of food. Jon stomach rumbled, his mouth filling with water.  Daenerys offered him a chunk of boar, dripping with juice. Jon ate the morsel from her hand, playfully licking seasoning from her fingers. The widening of her eyes told him she wasn’t unaffected. Jon rolled his eyes in exaggerated delight, earning a sweet little giggle. Though cold, the morsel was tender and flavorful. Leaning off the bed, he riffled for his discarded belt and his eating knife. Together, they sandwiched boar and potatoes between torn hunks of bread. With the point of the knife, he fed her juicy shreds of pear and crisps of bacon. Daenerys sipped the Dornish red with great relish, Jon noticed. The silence between them was companionable as they ate.

“What are my brothers like?” Daenerys asked after a moment, commandeering the eating knife to smear mashed tuber and goatcheese on a hunk of bread. Jon sipped the cold soup, the flavors bursting rich and savory on his tongue as he considered his reply.

“My lord father is the greatest man in the realms. A peerless warrior, a master statesman, an accomplished musician. Uncle Viserys is of the same noble blood,” Jon said. One of her dark blond eyebrow rose in an expression so like his lord father’s, Jon’s gut lurched. How had he not known her to be Targaryen in the first moment the mask fell?

“You’re lying.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” Jon said, a hard swallow of wine making his eyes water. Daenerys grinned, nudging Jon’s knee with her own.

“I have been on my own since I was nine. I learned how to spot a lie at five paces,” she said, pausing to sip her wine. A drop beaded on the corner of her mouth and Jon checked the impulse to lick it away. Jon gave a tight shrug, chewing on a couple candied almonds without tasting them.

“It wasn’t entirely a lie. My lord father is what I said.” 

“But?” Daenerys probed gently.

“But he is afflicted by bouts of melancholy. A shadow hangs over him. I am the walking, talking reminder of the woman he loved and lost. As such, h—he sent me away to my mother’s people when I was young.” The words were salt on his oldest wounds, and saying them aloud made his nerves raw. Daenerys folded her hand into his, as easy as breathing.

“I’m sorry.”

Jon squeezed her hand, relishing the easy comfort behind the gesture.

“Thank you, Dany.” She smiled at the appellation.

“I’ve never been close enough to anyone to share nicknames. Ser Darry was kind, but a simple man. After he died, the Sealord of Braavos housed me, but grew too amorous for my tastes. I wandered around each of the Free Cities and beyond before I caught Khal Drogo’s eye.”

“The Dothraki are said to be a fearsome people,” Jon said, his heart giving a sharp flip at the thought of her alone and in peril. Daenerys gave a measured nod, snagging another honeycake from the plate.

“They are also loyal, brave, and welcoming to those who show interest in their way,” Daenerys said, “after my dragons hatched, many chose to follow me as their khal. Never has that been in the history of the world.”

“You are a wonder,” Jon said dropping a kiss on back of her captive hand. _I’d follow you too, if you asked. To the ends of the earth._

Those bright eyes met his, a sharp thrill. Her expression was serious, almost stern. Jon stiffened, in an agony in the silence. The moment stretched on, rich with unspoken words. Daenerys broke it by leaning close to kiss him, soft as summer. Jon hummed in pleasure, relishing the taste of Dornish red on her mouth.

“And you are a surprise. Come here to me, Jon. We will worry about all else in the morning,” she said, letting the sheet drop. Jon sucked in a breath at her glorious body. He set aside the tray and carafes and returned to bed. It was no use guarding his heart against her. It was already hers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Daenerys face the morning, and their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less smut in this chapter my friends, but enough fluff to make your teeth ache! Enjoy

Chapter 3

                                                                                                                                                    

Jon jerked awake to the sound a knock at the door, his arms clenched tight around Dany. She made a low sound of protest. Violet-blue eyes blinked at him, gloriously mussed in the predawn grey.

“Jon, your lord father requests your presence at breakfast. I suggest you and your companion make yourselves presentable.” Shae’s accented, faintly amused voice floated through the door. Jon’s cheeks burned.

“Thank you, Shae. Give Lord Tyrion my regards,” he said with some asperity.

Jon listened to the faint pad of Shae’s slippers as she retreated. The fire had gone out and the air breathed cold and silent. Jon nestled closer to Daenerys, unwilling to relinquish his hold on her, or brave the chill beyond their warm nest of coverlets. The thin-ticked mattress had wreaked havoc on his back, his joints ached like an old man’s with an ague.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

Daenerys’ full lips curved in a sweet, shy smile. A delicious contrast to her warm naked body pressed against him. His heart thudded along with his hard cock, nestled against the ripe curves of her arse.

“Good morning,” she said. Silence stretched between them, tinged with shyness. Words of devotion lodged in his throat, heavy as rocks. After a moment, Jon found his voice.

“That was Lord Tyrion’s wife. He is my lord father’s Hand. Never fear, he is a friend, and very discreet.” Babbling like a fool. Gods! 

 “Good,” she said, twisting to lie on her back and kiss him. Jon hummed in pleasure.

Was it really last night when he’d stalked around the castle, lonely and miserable? Daenerys blazed into his life like a comet streaking across the sky. Fire and glory to the mere mortals below. The press of her lips, soft and open, sent a subtle shudder through him. His hands sought the downy softness of her skin, restlessly caressing. He would never sate the hunger for her. Instead, it grew broader, deeper, like the sea. The kiss deepened, warm and languid, measured by heartbeats, by the smooth slide of lips and tongue.

“We should dress,” Daenerys said when they surfaced for air. A needle of panic jabbed his innards.

Jon rolled on top of her, framing her face between his hands. Daenerys giggled, arching a brow in baffled pleasure. Smiling dreamily, Jon traced the thick shapes of her eyebrows, charmed by their suppleness. Dany nuzzled into the ticklish touch, her fingers likewise caressing his beard. Groping for focus, Jon cleared his throat. Somewhere after their third—or was it fourth?—encounter, Jon resolved to attempt a dangerous gambit. If Daenerys agreed, it would be well worth the risk.  

“Before we do, I should tell you about Uncle,” Jon said. Daenerys’ violet gaze sharpened, like a gemstone blade.

“Viserys? What about him?” she asked. Jon scowled, fumbling for the right words.

“My lord father is the man I told you of, wise and just. But Uncle, he can be . . . cruel. He covets power and is obsessed with dragons. Servants have found him sleeping beneath the skull of Balerion the Dread more than once.”

“And? You think I cannot hold my own against him across the breakfast table?” There was a querulous tone in her voice. The thought stung her pride.

“No, my wonder. Not at all,” Jon soothed, pecking a kiss on the tip of her nose. Daenerys murmured in pleasure, snatching a quick kiss on his lips. Jon took a steadying breath. His cock throbbed hopefully even after all their excesses, trapped between their bodies against her belly.

“I think if you mention your dragons, he would be tempted to take you hostage to ransom them from your people.” Daenerys’s expression froze, a hard mask of steely determination. A part of him pitied Uncle Viserys. She was more than a match for him.

“No one will take my dragons.” Though softly said, Jon heard the threat in them. Fine hairs rose on his arms. Fear and awe and adoration all tangled up in a knot inside him. _I will gladly spend the rest of my life untangling the knots she tied me in._  

“We won’t let that happen,” Jon said, in solemn agreement. Her jagged amethyst gaze softened.

“What do you suggest?” she asked.

Jon’s heart was a hammering beat in his chest, loud in his ears. He licked suddenly dry lips. Drinking in her soft gaze and relaxed muscles beneath him. Time stretched unbearably on.

“Marry me.”

Daenerys’ body stiffened, caressing hands frozen in his hair. A moment of heartbreaking unguarded emotion swam in her eyes, but for the life of him, Jon couldn’t name it.

Silence. Deafening silence.

Jon swallowed hard, humiliated tears prickling the backs of his eyes. Jon rolled off with a protesting squeak of bed-ropes to lay on his back, striving for equanimity. The timbered ceiling was dusted with cobwebs. The words were a gamble. Jon had never been adept at subterfuge or strategy. He knew in his bones he wanted Dany, and clumsily thought their interests were aligned.

“Jon. Jon! Listen!” her voice broke in.

Lit by the faint dawn kiss of pink and gold, she rose above him. The sight was so sweet it hurt. Her hands touched his cheek. Jon fought the urge to lean into the caress.

“Don’t be angry. It was a shock. Tell me your plan,” she said. Jon gulped in a deep breath, shifting onto his elbow to look at her.

“If . . . if we wed, we would be in a position of strength. I am a prince, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen. Uncle could not take you and risk his ire.” Dany digested his words with a measured nod.

“And then? I have no wish to stay in King’s Landing.” She pushed her fingers through the crimped fall of her hair. One piece stuck to her cheek. Jon’s fingers twitched in handfuls of sheet to keep from combing those silky strands.   

“I could . . . go with you,” he said, absorbed in the way air teased those gauzy cobwebs overhead. Again, that ringing silence. Jon risked a glance at her out of the tail of his eye. His heart lurched at the softness in her gaze.

“I . . . I couldn’t ask that of you, Jon.” Dany took his hand and pressed a kiss into his palm.

“Prince though I am, my father already has two children by his first wife, and a living brother as well. The realm is at peace. I am the spare.” Yesterday there had been pain in those words. Twined with Dany, they lost their sting. Daenerys’s lip twitched.

“And I the black sheep. What a pair we make.”

Jon wove their fingers together. So warm. The fire lived within her.

“So? What do you think?” he probed. The expression she wore was pensive, mysterious.

“When Khal Drogo died, I swore I would never enter a marriage not of my choosing. I would not ask that of you either.”

Jon nodded, though the words were an icicle jab in his innards. _Robb and Aegon have the pretty courtier’s manners!_ He chose simple, heartfelt sincerity.

“I . . . I can’t put a name to what I feel for you. But I know if I let you sail away, I would regret it for the rest of my life. I enjoy talking to you, and the bedsport is incredible. Marriages have been built on less.”

Whatever she expected him to say, it hadn’t been that. The marble-smooth planes of her face buckled into unguarded tenderness.

“Jon,” Daenerys whispered, dragging him close for a searing kiss. Jon growled, indulging his wish to thread his hands in her hair. The kiss spun on in a warm eternity. When she broke away, flushed and sun-kissed with her hair glowing like a halo, it was all Jon could do not to roll her beneath him and fuck her.

“How would we go about it?” she asked breathlessly. Jon sucked in a breath, winded by the hard blow of _joy_. It danced in his veins like the heat of sweetwine. The vision of her face blurred with a sheen of tears _. Soft-headed dolt!_ Jon yanked her in a tight embrace. The simmering hunger roared to swift boil. Jon tamped it down with some effort. It wouldn’t do to ravish his bride before their wedding!    

“Come! We must hurry!” Jon said.

 

~

 

The septon, shaped like a pear and clad in black homespun, was less than sanguine about being rousted from his bed before the sun had fully risen. A sack of gold dragons went a long way to assuage him. Her brother’s Hand Tyrion of House Lannister and his wife stood as witnesses. At least Shae had helped her with her hair. The feast dress of smoke-grey silk with blue embroidery and doeskin slippers would have to do. The lonely girl she’d been had dreamt of a wedding with flowers and feasting under a cloudless summer sky. Jon with his sweet summer smile was reward enough. _Wed_. Gods, was she mad to go along with this plan? Daenerys’s heart beat hard and sure in her breast.

It _was_ mad, and foolish and impulsive and utterly wonderful. By his own words, Jon’s uncle Viserys was the shadow of a snake before a dragon. The choice they dashed towards was one they chose for themselves. The septon droned on about the seven blessings of seven gods, the sanctity of this holy rite as he bound their woven hands with a white silken ribbon. All Daenerys knew was Jon’s sturdy form clad in somber black beside her, his warm hand in hers, his heart shining in the depths of his dark grey eyes. Daenerys’ throat closed. Handsome and kind, tender and loyal, a body that could make the gods weep, and a heart as true as gold. Jon was right, successful marriages had been built on far less than what they shared.

“In the light of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them into one for eternity. Now look upon each other and say the words,” the septon said at last.

Light filtered in from the stained glass windows of the Tower of the Hand’s miniscule sept, washing her husband in the Warrior’s blue and gold.

“Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers and she is mine.” Daenerys tightened her grip on his hand as his deep voice colored with the frost of the North spoke the words. Her own voice was a clear echo: “Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am his and he is mine.” The warm shivering feeling rose through her belly, her chest, bubbling through her veins. Stronger than joy, as fierce as hate.  

“I pronounce you one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Without waiting for the priest’s word, Jon leaned close to claim her mouth in a tender kiss. Tender wasn’t weak, no. Men like Drogo didn’t know the difference. Instead, it was strength known and leashed, pleasure sought. Heat hummed through her veins, arousal a dull pulse between her thighs. Daenerys kneaded the hard planes of his chest, wading into the giddy joy of kissing Jon Targaryen.

A low-voiced snicker reached her through the growing din of hunger. Jon made a low sound as she peeled back. Heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open to look at her. Gods, the way he _looked_ at her! That warm, worshipful look.

“Dany, my wife,” he whispered, full, kiss-bruised lips spread in a smile. _Wife_. As Drogo’s khaleesi, surrounding by bloodriders and handmaidens, the word hadn’t felt like this. Breathless and joyful. The ribbon fluttered in a ticklish caress around their bound hands.

“Husband,” she said, her smile stretching her face.

“I offer my sincerest congratulations, my prince and princess,” Lord Tyrion said, his arm wound around Shae’s waist.

“Thank you, Tyrion,” Jon said, clasping Lord Tyrion’s hand. The septon accepted his gold and shuffled on his way with a waft of his censer’s incense. Tyrion and Shae lingered, scrawling their signatures on the wedding contract. Binding and legal.

“You best hurry to the king’s chambers. You are already late,” Tyrion pointed out. Jon squeezed her ribbon-bound hand, beaming.

“Are you ready, Wife?”

“Yes,” she said.

They skipped like children down the halls, giggling and mooning over each other in the golden wash of morning sunlight. More than once, Daenerys tugged him into an alcove to kiss his smiling face. This giddy joy was a foreign and novel sensation, though the molten heat of Jon’s kisses was one she was fast becoming addicted to. In the Red Keep, tucked in a curtained alcove, Jon tugged her down onto his lap.

“Come here to me, my wonder,” Jon said in a husky whisper. Daenerys put up a token protest his tug on her arm.

“Jon, we should go. The king--” He pressed her ribbon bound palm over his thundering heart. Her chest caught at the sweetness and hunger in his eyes.

“—Can wait. We haven’t yet consummated our marriage,” Jon said with a comic waggle of his eyebrows. Daenerys giggled, succumbing to his welcoming tug. She straddled his lap, her gown rucked around her thighs.  

“We’ve already done a great deal of consummating.”

“Aye. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough,” he said, breathing wet kisses on the underside of her chin. Daenerys shuddered, fingernails biting into the heft of his shoulders.

“Nor I,” Daenerys said. Jon’s warm hand slid beneath gown and shift, tugging her smallclothes down to pool around her ankles. Arousal glowed like the sweet, sticky warmth of sun-warmed honey. Rough fingers curled gently along the slick seam of her sex. Kneading her pearl with gentle insistence as she rocked over him, striving for the sweet tension . . . Pleasure sluiced hot through her. Daenerys stoppered a cry in her throat, tugging his head back by a handful of his hair. The ribbon binding their hands was an encumbrance. She moved to untie it.

“Leave it. I like it,” Jon rasped. Daenerys guided their tied hands up to kiss his fingers.

“Very well, Husband.”

In the bright light of day, Daenerys devoured the fresh details of his face. The thick, curling hairs of his eyebrows, the neat curves of his ears, the raven’s wing glints of blue in his black curls. Likewise, he studied her with rapt fascination. His throat flexed as he swallowed. She wasn’t certain who moved first, but soon they were kissing madly, as if starved for touch. Daenerys attacked the laces of his trousers—clumsily one-handed—and soon his cock throbbed thick and hard in her clasp. Jon groaned, urging her down. One slick thrust and he was seated, so deep. Jon’s hand on her hip guided her with the speed, the depth he liked. Slow and hard. His growl muffled against her breasts. Daenerys rode him, each stroke striving for more contact, more heat, more pleasure.

The patter of footsteps on the stair made her freeze, her heart thundering in her ears. Jon’s grip on her hips tightened protectively. A silhouette darkened the thin protection of the curtain.

“Aegon, have you seen Snow?” It was a young woman. Aegon, that would be her nephew, her lord brother’s eldest son. Daenerys frowned. ‘Snow?’ What that what they called Jon?

“Quietly now, Rhae. My head’s pounding like a smith’s taken a hammer to it.” The modulated male voice sounded petulant. The girl, ‘Rhae,’ snickered.

“ _Tolī olvie averilla, valonqar_?” she asked sneeringly.

“ _Lyka, mandia_ ,” he replied, “I don’t know where he is. Did you try the stables? Horse-face like his Stark relatives, that’s where he belongs.” Anger brewed like stormclouds. Daenerys’ fists curled, venomous words flying to her lips. Jon cupped her cheek, tapping a finger over her lips in a mute plea for silence. The shifting brought her attention to the fact that they were still deeply joined. His cock, despite the insult, was still hard inside her. The two bickered as their footsteps retreated.

“Hush, hush, my wonder. Come here to me, please. I need you,” Jon whispered, coaxing.

Daenerys kissed him, fierce and hungry. How dare they? How dare they not see his sweet, quiet soul, and love him, as she did? It was love. Despite her dancing around it, parsing and tearing it into smaller, more palatable pieces, there it was. This joy, this passion, this all-encompassing madness: _Love_. Daenerys rose and fell in a hard, sweet rhythm, taking him deep inside with each sweet stroke. The tide rose in a bubbling hiss of froth sweeping them both up in its heat. Blinding white light and that elusive moment between heartbeats when they were no longer two, but one. Daenerys slumped on his lap, awash with his seed, nestling his head to her thundering heart.

 

~

 

They were late to breakfast. On any other day, it would earn a lecture from Grandmaester Wolken on how a man’s word must be kept and how valuable the king’s time was. On feastdays, the rules were a bit lax, a product of Lord Tyrion’s influence no doubt. Jon cast a sidelong glance at his new wife, flushed though entirely respectable in her silk gown. The wedding ribbon was braided into her hair. Just the sight of it made his cock twitch in his trousers. Baffling, given the regularity and ferocity of their coupling.

At the head of the table, his lord father’s stern violet gaze raked over him, then Dany. Queen Elia’s dark eyes followed, equally disapproving. Such a look, given even last night would be enough make his belly sour and burn with resentment. This morning, nothing could touch him. Not when Dany was holding his hand. Uncle Viserys, Aegon, and Rhaenys were arrayed around the table, hard violet eyes watching him. The table groaned with food: sausages and dragon peppers, bacon, bread with jam and honey, fried eggs and roast potatoes. The smell was heavenly, his belly gave a long, liquid rumble.

“Jon, you’re late,” his father said. There was a sharper speculation in his usual abstracted gaze, sharper still when looking upon Dany, their twined hands. For her part, she stood ramrod straight, chin tilted defiantly. A queen.

“My apologies, my lord father,” Jon murmured, fighting the impulse to squirm a little under such concentrated attention.

“Nephew, must you bring your whore to the breakfast table?” Viserys said with his usual sneer. Jon’s back went up, wishing he had a swordhilt or even a dirk to clasp. He swallowed the anger to burn like an ember in his throat.

“Uncle, I’d thank you not to speak that way to my wife,” he said. Calm and even.

The effect was like a lick of flame to wildfire. The table erupted into exclamations. Aegon uttered a bark of laughter before clutching his head in agony. Sidelong he shared a glance with Dany, who offered a faint curl of a smile. Rhaenys gawked, her mouth working like a landed fish.    

“You married the first one to bat her eyes at you, eh?” Aegon said between wheezes.

“Surely it isn’t binding?” Viserys said with a moue of distaste. Queen Elia wore a catlike smile.

“Passion is not a force easily ignored. A very Dornish choice, Jon,” she said with a gimlet gleam of approval. At that, Aegon and Rhaenys looked summarily chastened. Jon risked a glance at the head of the table. His lord father’s face was a handsome, inscrutable mask. The fervor died away at a gesture from the king.

“It is against the law for a prince to enter in marriage agreement without the king’s consent. I would know. But what’s done is done. What is your name, daughter-by-law?” his lord father said with an arch of a dark blond brow. Queen Elia made a derisive sound in her throat. Daenerys and Rhaegar were locked in an unwavering stare. Dany squeezed his hand.

“Daenerys,” she said. If Jon’s admission had set the table on fire, then Dany’s quenched it, like a forged sword in a quenching bucket. Silence fell, save for the flutter of the cold morning air from beyond the curtains.

“Daenerys?” Viserys repeated. Jon stifled the impulse to step in front of Dany, to protect her from the avaricious gleam in his uncle’s thin face. A violent wilderness screamed in Viserys’ gaze, spindly-fingered hands splayed on the table. Jon cast a glance about. His half-siblings looked by turns petulant and confused. Queen Elia still wore her odd little smile, sipping hot spiced tea from Dorne. Having never seen such a look directed at him from her, Jon shifted in discomfort.

Daenerys’ clear, imperious voice broke the silence again: “Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, wed to Jon of House Targaryen, by contract, by septon, and by marriage bed.” Warmth sluiced through him, mooning over her. Regal and strong, stubborn and cagey. Just as he liked her. Every eye turned to where his lord father sat, pensive and quiet. After an interminably long silence, the king cleared his throat.

“Then I suppose a welcome is order, sister. Come, dine with us.”

Training with Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, Jon learned combat was a much a dance as it was trying your level best to kill your opponent. Give and take, deftness and threat. Breakfast amongst Targaryens was much the same.

“Why did you come to the masque, sweet sister?” Viserys asked, slicing open a sausage with his eating knife. Grease trickled from the meat to pool on his plate.

“I’ve always longed to see Westeros, and meet my kin,” she said, chasing a dripping bite of dragon peppers to her mouth.

“And yet only young Jon had the pleasure of your company?” Aegon said, gulping his breakfast beer. A flick of his chin tossed his long blond hair with warmer golden undertones from his eyes. Jon loathed his easy charm, doubly so now that said charm was aimed at Jon’s wife.

Daenerys soothed the stewing anger by leaning close and stealing a lingering kiss on Jon’s mouth. When they parted, Jon licked his lips, tasting dragon peppers and Dany. Her hand slipped from their respectable clasp on the bench to creep up Jon’s thigh. A kiss, a glancing touch, and he was hard. In her thrall. Jon buried his nose in his beer mug, heat stinging in his cheeks.

“I was distracted,” Daenerys said. Gods, her _hand_. Kneading his cock trapped in his leathers. By force of will, Jon kept from squirming. Every movement was carefully measured, though there was the slightest quiver in his hands as he sawed off a hunk of bread to mop up his fried eggs. With Dany in it, his world was vibrant. Colors were brighter. The breath in his lungs sweeter. Pleasure chasing his blood through his veins. He was almost giddy with it.

“There are many tales of you from across the Narrow Sea, my sister. I wonder how many are true?” his lord father asked. Daenerys sipped her breakfast beer gingerly.

“The same could be said of you. Rhaegar the Dragon, they call you.”

“And you? What is it Varys said, brother?” Rhaegar asked Viserys, not breaking Dany’s gaze.

“ _The Mother of Dragons_ ,” he said, each syllable enunciated. Jon steeled himself, tugging Dany’s hand away from his groin. He needed focus, not her maddening bed games.

“Are we not all dragons, Uncle? Sons and daughters of Old Valyria?” Jon asked.

“Yes, some more than others,” Viserys said cuttingly. The oblique rebuke on his parentage bounced off his armor like an arrow.

“Daenerys prefers life in the Free Cities. We will leave King’s Landing by day’s end.” Jon’s words were a bludgeoning blow. A hammer instead of the jab and parry of a sword. Rhaegar’s eyes slitted. Shocked silence fell over the table. Audacious, dancing with the line of madness to say such things to the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Is that so, my son?” The tone was silken, his voice pitched low. While Viserys’ anger was loud and blustering, the angrier his lord father became, the quieter he spoke. When news of Stannis Baratheon breaking free from his imprisonment at the Eyrie reached King’s Landing, Ser Hightower of the Kingsguard took his orders to retrieve Stannis’ head in a whisper. Jon stiffened his spine, though the boy within cowered.

“It is so, my lord father. By your leave.”

“‘By your leave,’ he says. It _is_ by my leave, boy. I am king,” he hissed. Jon leapt to his feet, knocking the bench back.

“A king should not need to remind a man of that fact!” Jon bellowed. The swallowed ember of anger roared into a blaze, colored with a life’s worth of resentment and hurt.

“The flat of my sword shall be reminder enough!” the king said, fury taut on his face. The two Kingsguard leaning against the wall, Ser Hightower and Ser Whent surged forward, their hands on swordhilts. Jon shoved his wife behind him. Daenerys’ warm hand laid on his arm, fingernails digging in. Through the din of rage, Daenerys’ whisper stopped him.

“Peace, husband. Peace, my love.” Her warm breath tickled his ear. The thundering of his heart redoubled at the sound of those coveted words. Jon touched his forehead to hers.

“My _love_ . . . oh my love,” His voice broke. Jon forgot about the hard watching eyes. Dany was all that mattered. Her strong heart, her sharp tongue, her sweet beautiful soul.

“It is a love match, then?” his lord father’s voice was gentler. He could hear the singer in those words. Jon turned to face his father, Daenerys tucked to his side.

“Yes, my lord father,” Jon said. Unnamed emotion flitted across the king’s handsome face. Awash in the golden light of spring, he looked like a king of sunlight and shadow with his silver hair and black doublet.

“Then I shall give you leave to go.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany make their way out of King's Landing

Chapter 4

 

Framed by the stone pillars of the great hall, father and son appeared to have little in common. The father—her brother Rhaegar—was tall and slender, a picture of Valyrian beauty with his silver hair and violet eyes. The son—her husband Jon—was shorter with a thicker heft of muscle, northern in coloring and speech. A grace of movement unified them, as well as the tendency to shove back their hair when nervous or lost in thought. Rhaegar’s musical voice was a counterpoint to Jon’s rougher burr.

Breakfast had ended with Viserys storming out, muttering about ‘waking the dragon.’ The Dornish queen took her leave with better grace, snapping at her sniveling offspring to follow. Which was fortunate, Daenerys had been moments away from offering some very colorful words for the silver-haired fop who teased her ankle beneath the table.

The scales were tilted in the queen’s favor, Daenerys thought. Jon, son of the woman Rhaegar had defied the world to wed, had now neatly secured succession for Queen Elia’s children. Wed to a barren woman, the black sheep Targaryen girl, Jon could never succeed Rhaegar. The thought stung, but Daenerys twined the tail of her wedding ribbon around one finger in a comforting gesture. In a single stroke, Jon chose to alienate his entire family for her.

The king proved to be an enigma. By turns impassive and tempestuous, her brother the king baffled her. While father and son walked, shadowed by the clanking white Kingsguard, Daenerys saw a softness enter her husband’s face, viewed in profile. Daenerys thought it best to give them privacy, so she could not hear the words they spoke to each other. Jon caught his father in a fierce embrace and some of her tension ebbed. Peace and reconciliation. Of anyone she’d ever met, Jon deserved that.

“Sister,” the king asked, with a beckoning curl of his long-fingered hand.

“My lord brother,” Daenerys said with a half-curtsey, though after years as a queen instead of supplicant, the subservient words stuck in her craw. Rhaegar’s answering smile was thin.

“I never grew used to it, either. Our mother had quiet dignity mastered no matter how our father railed and ranted.” Daenerys swallowed a pang. Another sorrow of her life, having never known her mother’s face. Jon slipped his hand into hers and the wave of feeling mellowed.

 “I know what is it to snatch joy from an evil world. Had Lyanna and I been given a chance at happiness, I would have snatched at it as you have,” Rhaegar said, clapping a sword-scarred hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“Forgive me, sister. I haven’t cared for you as I should. At first in pique, to think a man of the Kingsguard as staunch as Ser Darry would think I would fall before such scum as Robert Baratheon!” Jon and Rhaegar shared a snicker at that. Daenerys managed a wan smile. Ser Darry had been the only bright spot in a dismal, lonely childhood. Jon noted her expression and sobered, squeezing her hand in contrite apology.

“Ser Darry sheltered and protected me, my lord brother,” she said in a brittle tone. _As you did not._ Though unspoken, he heard the words all the same. Rhaegar cradled her cheek with a gentle hand, his face radiating warmth. The intensity of his violet gaze was unnerving. None of his abstraction now, those eyes were fierce, intelligent, gelid.

“And for that I am grateful. He did what I should have. I failed as your protector and your kin. In the many years since as well. Please accept my apologies.”

The words pressed on a bruise, a child’s bewildered sadness when she learned her brother was a king. _Why did they not come for me?_ Rapers, slavers, magisters, khals, and sealords alike had clawed at her like ravening jackals, hungry for a piece of her. The place between her legs, her name, her fair hair. Bitter words welled up, poison suppurating from the ill-healed wound. From the tail of her eye, she saw Jon’s face, eyes swimming with emotion. Daenerys swallowed those words. She would not stab at Rhaegar through Jon.

“Apology accepted,” Daenerys said, her voice a hoarse rasp. The king nodded magnanimously. He brandished their wedding contract with a graceful twist.

“I must have a word with my Hand regarding my marriageable children.” Beneath the wry humor, Daenerys heard the sharpness.

“It was my heart that led me, Father, despite the circumstances,” Jon said, forthright and brave. Daenerys heart melted all over again. Men would whisper that she had ensnared a prince with her wiles, though not for long in her hearing, she vowed.

“Come, I have gifts for you,” the king said.

The great hall held the dregs of the feast. Servants flitted about wadding up soiled napery, clearing dishes, replacing melted tapers, raking soiled rushes. Dogs slinked about to feast on dropped scraps. Whispers raced like a kindling flame through tinder. Each stilled, eyes round as saucers as the king glided by. The Kingsguard followed behind with the chime of oiled ringmail and the creak of boiled leather and plate. Daenerys felt the oily press of their gaze, curious and vaguely hostile. _The sooner Jon and I put this wretched place behind us, the happier I’ll be._

The king led them through a warren of rooms, all the while speaking softly to Jon. The melody of the singer lingered in his speaking voice as well, deep and sweet as a mountain river. At last they came to a storeroom. Dust motes idled in the beam of sunlight from the high window. Daenerys choked down a cough, the scent of mold and dust tickled her throat. Wooden racks lined the walls, laden with chests. Tension hummed through her. Veiled through her lashes she glanced at Jon. His expression was bemused but relaxed. Not a planned imprisonment of troublesome offspring then. Rhaegar flicked his chin, tossing his hair from his eyes. A gesture so like her own, Daenerys nearly gasped. The king’s violet gaze rested on Jon, tinged with fondness.

“A man wed deserves a man’s sword,” the king said, flicking open a leather-banded chest. Mummified by strips of waxed linen to protect from damp and cold, lay a sword. Jon accepted the burden with reverence, unwinding the strips as tenderly as he had unwound her braids.

“Our ancestors were careless with their heirlooms. No Valyrian steel sword remains amongst the ruling house of Westeros. Not Blackfyre, nor Dark Sister, nor any of half a dozen blades smuggled away from the Doom. I sent a raven to Lord Stark requesting to have the greatsword Ice reworked. There is more than enough steel for two blades. His reply was polite, but emphatic. ‘ _Ice is of the North.’”_ Jon’s answering smile was warm, the slight squaring of his shoulders speaking of his pride in his heritage. Rhaegar’s eyes, warm with humor, lifted to meet hers. So there was a disarming charm beneath that aloof regard. The mystery of Rhaegar’s allure made more sense.

“I thought that might please you, Jon. This blade is castle-forged steel. I think it will serve you well.” It was a simple weapon, but no less beautiful for its plainness. The hand-and-a-half hilt braided leather, the blued steel crossbar flares molded into the shape of dragon’s heads with chips of garnet for eyes. The pommel was a curled loop, etched to mimic a dragon’s tail. The blade gleamed like polished silver in the light, forge-fresh. 

“Thank you, my lord father,” Jon said, sheathing the blade with a crisp snap.        

“The best swords have names,” Daenerys said. Jon threaded his belt through the scabbard loops.

“That is true, Wife. But I think I will find a name once I’ve earned the right to carry one,” he said.

“With the wife you chose, it might be sooner than later when you raise it in anger. It is not an easy thing, to kill a man,” the king said. Daenerys bristled at the words. Her fists balled.

“Words can cut deeper than swords, as I’m sure you know, brother. The name ‘Targaryen’ means something different across the Narrow Sea,” Daenerys snapped. The dual meaning wasn’t lost on Rhaegar. She could see it in the narrowing of his eyes, the subtle stiffening in his posture. An indictment on his treatment of Jon and also her own position as a ruler beyond Westeros. One day to be a dragonrider, like the sorcerers of Old Valyria. Jon understood the byplay and looked helplessly between his father and his wife.

“Tell me, sweet sister, what do they say of our name in Essos?” Rhaegar asked. Daenerys choked down her choler with some effort. _For Jon. For_ Jon _._

“That King Rhaegar is Aegon the Dragon reborn,” she said with a dripping, saccharine smile. Rhaegar arched a brow.

“Despite your insolence, I have a gift for you as well, sister.”

Rhaegar summoned a Kingsguard—Whent, maybe?—with a negligent gesture. The knight riffled through chest after chest until he found what the king wanted.

“You are not the type for silks and jewels, so I thought this might do.” The dagger was a wicked blade, dark steel glittering with wavy patterns, the hilt polished black and smooth.

“Valyrian steel and dragonbone,” Jon said, running awed fingers over it. Daenerys accepted it with grace. A princely gift.

“And this as well,” Rhaegar said softly, offering a pearl ring in his cupped hand. Hints of tarnish clung to the scrolled silver setting.

“What happened to no silk or jewels?” she sneered.

“It was our mother’s. A favorite of hers.” Damn him! Daenerys’ throat closed as she accepted the ring. The pearl was warm in her palm. A fanciful thought said it had drunk in her mother’s warmth too and saved it for her. It was too loose for her ring finger, but fit perfectly on her index. She stroked the cool metal edge with her thumb.

“Thank you, my lord brother.”

 

~

 

The iron band constricting his lungs loosened with each stride away from King’s Landing. Goodbyes had been quick as a squire packed a rucksack of clothing and supplies. Ser Barristan’s bear hug had squeezed his ribs. Never again would there be the faint chime of armor dogging his steps. A Kingsguard must stay with the king, and royal kin. Like stepping in quicksand, the ground now shifted beneath him. His father gave his blessing, but hurrying them off in a watch’s time spoke of embarrassment, of exile. Once before, the gift of a sword to a second son had sown the seeds of rebellion. He shifted in the saddle, unused to the weight on his left hip. The onus of protection fell on him. It was a terrifying, freeing thought. _I will protect her with the last drop of my blood._

Jon glanced at his wife riding half a length behind him, at ease in her riding leathers. Gods, his blood boiled at the sight of her in trousers, riding as if she’d been born in the saddle. The sight of their wedding ribbon in her hair made his heart ache along with his balls. Freedom and Daenerys more than made up for it. Besides, there were always ravens to carry letters. Her silver steed was a marvel too, the pride of Khal Drogo’s khalasar; Daenerys said her name was Ciri. A fresh breeze blew in from the sea, bearing the sweet-foul smell of seaweed and dead fish. Dew glittered on every leaf, every blade of grass in the glorious honeyed sunlight, warm on his shoulders. Jon breathed deep, his first clean breath since riding south to Winterfell.  

“We should reach Duskendale by nightfall. The Seven Swords is a fine tavern. Ser Selmy and I bunked there on the ride south,” Jon said. The wind played with flyaway strands of her hair, curling them up and tickling her face with them. Her breasts joggled with each of her horse’s stride, and Jon manfully looked away. A cockstand in leathers whilst riding was a sight uncomfortable. 

“So close to the capital, why didn’t you press on?”

“I didn’t want to greet my father reeking of horse and hard travel,” he said with a shrug.

“You love him dearly,” she said, a hint of a frown puckering her brow. Jon reined his bay cob even with her stirrup. The gravel of the kingsroad crunched beneath castle-shod hooves.  

“Aye. He’s my father,” Jon said. His words seemed to distress her. She glanced away, pretending to admire a stand of maple trees in spring’s tender green unfurling. 

“Dany?” he asked, leaning to capture her hand and tug their mounts to a stop. Queen Rhaella’s ring gleamed on her first finger. It was a kind thought, to give Daenerys a token of the mother she lost. It was more than Jon was ever given of his own mother.

“This is madness,” she said, hoarse and quiet. A chill raced through him, prickling the fine hairs on his arms. No. No, they were _wed_. She couldn’t leave him.

Huffing through his nose, Jon swung down from his cob and led both horses to the shade of that copse of maple trees. A curt gesture offered to help her down from the saddle. He’d be damned if they’d quarrel on their horses. Jon needed to face her square, see her eyes, her face. Dany ignored him, flicking her feet from the stirrups and slithering down with practiced ease. She picked her way deeper into the copse of trees.

“Dany, wait.” Jon snagged her arm and turned her to face. Tears swam in her eyes, though her lips were pursed in a grim line. Jon was caught between the desire to kiss her and shout at her.

“Now what nonsense are you saying?” he said, folding his arms over his chest. Daenerys spun the pearl ring on her finger.

“You are a prince, Jon. It’s madness for you to go taring off after a tryst--” Jon stumbled, as if from a blow.

“A _tryst_? You are my wife!”

“You _love_ your family. You can’t just leave them all behind--” her voice wobbled, but Jon warded off the blow of it. Let it slide off his shield, steeled for a deeper bite.

“ _You_ are my family!”

Brought up short by that, Daenerys just looked at him. Dappled in sunlight, she took his breath away. She closed her eyes. Tears flashed down her cheeks. Jon choked down the lump in his throat. Jon grasped her arms, tugging her close to him. He needed the heat and smell of her. Real and solid. Would he always fear she’d float away, like smoke in the wind? Dany stood stiff in his embrace, waging some war within herself. Jon tipped her chin up with a gentle fingertip, though when he spoke, his voice was harsh: “You are wed to me, Daenerys. You spoke words of love this morning. Did you speak false?” Those tearstained violet eyes widened.

“No, not at all. I do love you,” she said softly. The words bloomed in his heart, his blood. Relief and bewildered joy, as potent as summerwine. Gods. _Dany._

“And I love you. See? You needn’t worry. What is madness today will be peace tomorrow once we book passage to Pentos. It will be a bit strange as we get to know each other, but all will be well in time,” he said. The words brought her no solace, if anything, she wept harder. Confused, Jon drew her unresisting into an embrace. Dany threw her arms around his neck, clutching him close as she wept. The words emerged between hiccups and shuddering breaths.

“I . . . I—I’m not worth it. E—Even Rhaegar thought so. Why else . . . why else would he leave me in Essos?” she said. Jon’s fists clenched against her back. The love he felt for his father wavered like a straw hut beneath a gale. Daenerys had suffered at his hands, as Jon had. Abandonment and loneliness. Apologies mouthed with a cryptic tone and a faraway glance. Love the king felt, it was true, but his was cruel, indifferent love.

“You _are_ worthy. You will never be alone again, I swear it,” he whispered fiercely. Daenerys peeled back, sniffling. Jon petted her face, smoothing away the tears. He twined one of her flyaway strands of hair around his finger and tugged gently.

“Peace, my sweet wife,” he whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips. Daenerys followed the kiss as he pulled away, shifting into his body. A slow bloom of heat stirred in his loins. He licked his lips, tasting the dust of the road, and Dany’s own sweet-spice.

“Come here to me. Love me, Husband,” Dany whispered, tugging him flush with the tail of his swordbelt. Gods! A heavy-lidded look, a few husky words and he was hard. So hard for her.

“Here?” Jon’s voice swung up, though his hands defied his will and gripped her hips. Those trousers . . . he could feel the ripe shape of her arse through butter-soft black leather. Dany’s lips curved in a smile sweet as sin. Sunlight kissed her radiant skin, made her eyes glitter like gemstones.

“Yes. Love me,” Daenerys breathed against his lips. Kissing him soft, inviting.

Jon sank into the kiss like it was a hot bath after a long day. He sought the caress of her tongue, muscling her back against the bulk of a maple tree. The air smelled of leaf mold and turned earth, the bark dew-wet and rough. There was a certain piquant excitement in taking her under the open sky. She was the wife of his heart, his treasure, but fucking her in the weeds like a common whore roused him. It did so for her too, he could feel the thundering heartbeat, in her trembling hands unhooking his swordbelt. Sword and belt both landed with a muted thud on the moss. Jon shoved down her trousers and smallclothes, sliding chilled fingers between the silky skin of her thighs. A delicate stroke opened her. Not wet enough. Not yet. He liked her sopping, dripping honey. Jon’s mouth filled with water. He sank to his knees.

“Wh—what are you doing?” Dany asked. Breathless, flushed, bare-arsed in the morning sun. Jon kissed her just below her navel, her fingers sinking into his hair. The tie snapped, his hair falling loose and wild.

“What does it look like?” he asked with a smile, “I’m kneeling for my lady.”

“Jon, I don--” A delicate lick at her nub, shy and pink. Her words broke off in a ragged gasp, fingers clenched in handfuls of his hair. Jon drank in the details in the bright light, the color and texture of her pubic hair, the tender skin of her inner thigh, the salt-sweet of her honey. Soon she was thrusting her hips toward his mouth. Jon supported her quivering legs, one hand fisting his throbbing cock roughly through his leathers. Her release built, swift and bright. A sharp, loud cry.

“ _Sshhh_ ,” Jon chided, nipping her thigh hard. Daenerys bit her lip around a half-stifled yelp. Jon yanked at the laces of his trousers. Freed, his cock throbbed in cool air.

“Jon, Jon,” she whimpered, kicking free of her trousers. Jon heaved her up, braced against the rough tree trunk. With a few abortive thrusts, he got the angle right. _Yess_. The hot, wet heaven of her cunt. She sank down on him, helpless and spread open. His to fuck and use, his to love and cherish. _His_. He drove into her slow and deep. His arms burned, his legs quivered, but she was the sweetest of burdens.

“Mine,” he hissed against her lips, “you’re _mine_.” 

“Yours! Yours, Jon,” she said, arms twined around his neck. Jon nestled his face against her breasts as he thrusted. Roused too fiercely, the pleasure boiled up hot and quick. A sucked in breath, delicious tension in his balls and--

“Oh gods,” Jon said, groaning as he spilled inside her. On wobbling legs, he set her down gently. His legs gave out and he fell on his rump in the grass, panting. Jon uttered a breathless laugh. Daenerys giggled, chest heaving. _There, that’s it. A smile._

“Agreed, husband,” she drawled with a sated smile. Daenerys bent to help him to his feet. Jon tugged her close, one hand smoothing down her back to squeeze the firm globe of her buttocks. Bare-arsed and dripping his seed . . . arousal was deep, burning ache in his gut. Daenerys playfully batted at him away, using the hem of her smallclothes to sop up their mingled fluids. Jon tucked his cock back in his trousers and retied the laces, watching in admiration as she bent to don her trousers. He licked his lips, tasting her.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said, grinning. The smile faded from her eyes, her fingers momentarily still on her trouser lacings.

“Don’t say that. Death is always near. Don’t invoke him.” Chastened and smarting, Jon stifled irritation.

“Come, let’s go,” he said gruffly, snatching up his swordbelt. Brushing off dirt and moss from the scabbard, he tramped back to where the horses grazed. The feathery brush of tender leaves and branches tickled as he passed. A slanting beam of sunlight through the wooly clouds caught a spider’s web, delicate and perfect with a diamond sheen of dew. The horses stamped peaceably in the shade, tails swishing.

“Jon?”

“Come, my lady. There are many leagues between here and Duskendale we must cover before dusk. The days grow longer, but it isn’t summer yet,” he said, setting his foot in the stirrup. Daenerys stilled him with a gentle hand on his arm. Jon turned to face her, patting the cob on the rump. He met her gaze, stern and even. Whatever she saw in his expression made her eyebrow arch.

“Are you cross with me?” she asked.

“Aye. I cannot follow your moods, my lady. It’s like feeling a colt bolt from beneath you,” Jon said, scowling. Dany worried her lower lip with her teeth.

“Those I love do not seem to last long. Death takes his due where he likes,” she said in a colorless voice. The irritation began to ebb through his fingers, draining away like water from a broken cistern. Jon heaved a sigh, finding a half-smile.

“This is parcel of learning each other’s rhythms, hmm?” he said. The set of her shoulders relaxed. Was it habit to view others as opposition? The shield she carried was a sturdy one, but she would learn she needn’t heft it against him. And him as well. Rhaenys and Aegon were always sniping that was sullen and aloof.

“Yes,” Dany said, “forgive me.” Jon shrugged, uncomfortable.

“There’s naught to forgive, wife,” he said, cupping her cheek to kiss her. The pleasure was as deep and sweet as always, and it took some time before she broke their clinch. Jon hummed, rubbing her soft cheek with the backs of his fingers.   

“We should ride. You mentioned an inn in Duskendale?” Daenerys asked.   

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Dany meet her bodyguards and ride for Duskendale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took so long for this chapter to come. My muse would not cooperate. Enjoy some smut. ;)

 

Chapter 5

 

The leagues between King’s Landing and Duskendale passed in the crunch of gravel beneath the horses’ hooves and the warmth of the sun on her shoulders. Ciri’s stride was long and liquid beneath her, Jon low-voiced conversation a deep burr in her ear. He spoke of the beauty of Westeros, remarking on the lands they passed. It was indeed beautiful country, softening into its spring green. Just the two of them beneath a blue sky deep enough to drown in, free and giddy with new love . . . it was a glorious feeling.

Dusk began to settle in rusty orange. Shreds of cloud lazed in the sky like streaks of blood. Hunger rumbled in her belly. Duskendale’s walls glittered in the setting sun, fires ablaze in its towers. A welcome sight for a weary traveler. A whistle trilled in her ear. A low note, then high. Low then high, three times. A smile broke out on her face. She stood in the stirrups, spying the cluster of horses off the kingsroad beneath the shade of an ironoak. She whistled back. From her mount, Missandei waved. Daenerys laughed, joy lifting her heart like a bird on wing.

Jon urged his cob even with her stirrup, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Daenerys?” he asked.

“Peace, Husband. These are my own people. I told you of the confidante and bodyguards who rode with me from Essos? When all was well with your father this morning, I sent a raven for them to ride ahead and meet us on the road.” His scowl was dark as stormclouds. _Perhaps he should have been named Stormborn too._ His posture relaxed, though the scowl remained.

“Why?” Suspicion was sharp in his voice. Her husband was prone to moods as well. Gods help them when they quarreled. Daenerys nudged his knee with her own, undeterred.

“Mayhap I wanted you all to myself for a time,” she said with a suggestive smile. Jon’s answering smile was like the sun bursting from behind a cloud. Gods, once won his smiles were treasures.

“I quite enjoy having you to myself, my wonder,” he said with a heavy-lidded look that Daenerys felt down to her toes. The giddiness bit deep at the endearment. The words spoke of how he treasured and admired her ‘my wonder,’ ‘wife,’ ‘Dany.’ With a pang, she resolved to find similar words for him. ‘Husband’ was a word spoken as often with dread rather than love, though she found she enjoyed calling Jon so.

“I’ll show you how much at the inn,” she promised huskily. Jon hummed, relaxing back in the saddle.

“Greetings, blood of my blood!” Kovarro hailed in Dothraki.

“Blood of my blood!” Daenerys replied in the same tongue. Daenerys slid off a trotting Ciri with a practiced flick of her leg to greet her people. The gravel of the kingsroad gave way to poky green weeds that the horses cropped. Missandei’s scent of cinnamon washed over her, familiar and comforting as they embraced. It was a boon to have a friend close to her own age, though Missandei was often with her love Grey Worm.

“Hello my friend,” Daenerys whispered, peeling back to cup her cheek fondly.

“ _Khaleesi_ ,” she replied, amber-brown eyes peeking curiously at Jon. He loomed close to her, his eyes flickering warily over the sturdy bulk of Aggo and Kovarro, and the leaner, sharper strength of Grey Worm. 

“My blood, my friends, this is Jon Targaryen. My husband,” she said, first in Dothraki, then again in Common. Shock rippled through the small group. Daenerys bit back a smile. She’d failed to mention that in her raven scroll. Missandei’s eyes flew so wide, her eyes looked like drops of candied honey on a sheet. Grey Worm was the first to recover.

“Husband, _Jelmazmo_?” he repeated, narrow black eyes looking Jon up and down. An Unsullied sold to Astapori fighting pits when his master gambled away his fortune, Grey Worm became a warrior of some renown. Daenerys bought his freedom, along with several others. To a man, they were fiercely loyal. He was much like the Dothraki who chose to follow her after her dragons hatched, even to the edge of the world and beyond the poison water. Jon’s posture stiffened under Grey Worm’s cool regard.  

“Aye, wed this morning in the sept,” Jon said, his tone even. The words were embroidered with an edge, almost . . . _jealous_. Caught between irritation and amusement, Daenerys sliced her hand in a sharp gesture. A breeze blew in from the sea, bearing the lingering bite of winter. Daenerys shivered. Her thin woolen tunic was scant protection. Westeros was far colder than she expected. _So many surprises._

“Enough. We can discuss the hows and whys as we ride,” she said.

Without further protest, the group pointed their mounts towards Duskendale. By turns Jon and Daenerys regaled them with the tale of their meeting—though editing out the details of the bedding—then the meeting with her kin.

“The silver khal’s every breath is an insult to you, khaleesi. You are Mother of Dragons. Let me kill him for you,” Aggo growled, spitting in the dirt.

“Have a care how you speak of my lord father, rider,” Jon said from beside her. The quiet tone belied a well of cold rage. So cold, it raised gooseflesh on her skin. The bite of the North’s ice. An awkward silence fell, broken only by the song of the wind sighing through the trees and the clatter of hoofbeats on the kingsroad. From the tail of her eye, she saw Jon’s knuckles white on the reins.

“Aggo speaks from a place of loyalty. He will do no harm unless I will it so. Is that not true, blood of my blood?” Daenerys said, with some sharpness. Aggo—his black hair salted with white, a gruesome scar slicing down in left cheek—gave a sullen nod.

“As you say, khaleesi,” he said, with a harsh yank on his red’s reins. The silence thawed a little after that. Missandei, bless her, coaxed Jon into conversation with talk of horses and Westeros.

“Winterfell is the ancient seat of the North, built by Brandon the Builder,” Jon said.

“Have you seen the Wall?” Daenerys asked.

“Aye, my Uncle Benjen is First Ranger of the Night’s Watch,” Jon said, his voice tinged with pride. He flicked a horsefly from the neck of his cob. Daenerys warmed at the sight of him in the amber wash of the dying sun, relaxed and so handsome it stole her breath. The evening star winked along the eastern horizon from the murky velvet blue of the sunset sky.

“It is a glorious sight, my wonder. Seven hundred feet of ice and rock. When the sun hits it, it shines as blue as the sky. The haunted forest stretches for leagues north of the Wall.”

“And what lives there?” Missandei asked, alight with curiosity. Jon shared a grin with Daenerys.

“Wildlings mostly, my lady. Though the stories say all sorts of creatures lurk in wilds.”

“‘Creatures?’ What is this word?” Grey Worm asked, masking his interest with an indifferent shrug.

“Monsters. Beasts,” Jon said.

“What sort? I should like to hunt these creatures,” Kovarro said, touching the hilt of his _arakh_ fondly.

“Fearsome things, to hear my uncle tell it. Direwolves large as horses. Bears as white as snow and fierce as death. Giants three times the height of a man,” Jon said with an exaggerated gesture. Even Aggo’s eyes seemed round as a child’s as her husband spoke. A thin smile lurked beneath Kovarro’s patchy beard.

“You are of the same fierce blood, Jon of the Dragon Tent,” he said. “The direwolf is the Stark sigil, yes. They are my mother’s people.”

“A son of wolves and dragons,” Daenerys said. The duck of his curly head was sweet, bashful.

“I would like to take you to Winterfell, my wonder. My lord uncle and his lady wife would receive us with a great feast.” Daenerys saw the hope in his face and felt an ache beneath her breastbone. Her children called her over the leagues separating them. She licked her lips to answer when the guard atop Duskendale’s wall hailed them.

“Who goes there? Name yourselves!”

In peacetime and in spring within a port and trading town, it was an easy thing for her party to enter the city. There were some suspicious looks at the Dothraki, but a couple gold dragons allowed them to enter unmolested. The streets were bustling despite the late hour. Traders in silks and palanquins who waited for no one, artisans who wanted to milk the last drop of the lengthened light, dirty children shrieking and playing. To a man, they all stopped and stared as her party rode by.

It was no small thing for Dothraki to cross the Narrow Sea. Kovarro with his sleek black arakh, Aggo with his whip coiled around his chest made for a fearsome sight, made moreso by their scowling. Grey Worm too made for a fine sight in his scarred leather armor, a plume of red-dyed horsehair waving from the tip of his Unsullied spear.

Daenerys glanced at Jon. He was used to attention from smallfolk, though she doubted it was negative attention, as a beloved prince of Westeros. Relaxed into the sway of his cob, he looked alert and calm. He felt the weight of her gaze and twisted in the saddle.

“Are you well, my wonder?” he asked. Daenerys nudged her silver closer to Jon’s cob and leaned over to take his hand.

“Now I am,” she said. A voice in her head that sound eerily like her aspish brother Viserys sneered she was a besotted fool. Jon’s smile was well worth it.

Jon led the way into the inn, the Seven Swords. The innkeep was a rail-thin man of middling years, stroking his salted black beard nervously.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my prince, but these lot can’t be mucking about, my other patrons, you see . . .”

“My wife’s men will behave themselves, Master Waters, I promise you,” Jon said, flicking a silver stag in his direction. Daenerys saw the fear stark in the innkeep’s eyes as Aggo ducked under the lintel to enter the common room.

“We shall need meat and beer, three of your best rooms and stalls for our mounts,” Jon continued, leading her to a cozy booth by the hearth. A bard played pipes in the corner. The half dozen other patrons watched with frank curiosity as their group crammed into the booth.

Serving women hovered and in due course platters and jugs were dropped before them with trembling hands. The fare was rich and plentiful: creamy crab stew, mutton chops still sizzling with butter and roasted onions, dark brown bread, beer and water and a crumbly apple tart made from the first of the spring crop. Daenerys’ mouth filled with water. It was all she could do to remember tidy manners. Amongst her Essosi, the mutton and stew were welcomed, though Kovarro refused to swallow the beer.

“Weak milk men water. I will give you a man’s drink once we reach Pentos, Jon of the Dragon Tent.”

Jon gulped his beer without demur, sharing a glance with her. Daenerys nudged his shoulder with her own. The beer was unobjectionable, cold and bitter to her tongue.

“Aye?” Jon asked, wiping his mouth on his cuff, “and what is a man’s drink in Essos?”

“The Dothraki prefer fermented mare’s milk. It’s . . . chewy,” Daenerys said with a moue of distaste. Jon snorted into his cup.

“I . . . look forward to trying it,” Jon said manfully between coughing and sputtering.

To Daenerys’ delight, the initial discomfiture of meeting loosened over the course of the meal. Full bellies went a long way towards easing distrust. Jon scooped a drooping bite of apple tart onto his fork and offered it to her. Daenerys smiled and accepted the bite, allowing a dribble of cream to speckle her chin. The apple tart was delicious, the crust flaky, the cream and apple both sweet and tart. Jon’s dark eyes gleamed, an avid lustful glow. Daenerys dabbed the cream from her chin with her napkin. Missandei’s knowing smile caught her eye, and Daenerys flushed. Here she was mooning like a lovesick girl over her new husband.

“I will seek ship to Pentos at dawn, _Jelmazmo_ ,” Grey Worm said, unfolding from the booth and offering a hand to Missandei as their meal ended. Daenerys chewed on her lower lip. A glance over her shoulder found Jon deep in conversation with the innkeep.

“Perhaps wait until we break our fast, Grey Worm. I must discuss our plans with my husband.”

“As you say,” Grey Worm said with a slight bow.

 

Upstairs, the Seven Swords offered a hearth and a modest four-poster bed, canopied in moth-eaten hunter green linen. A boy laid wood into the hearth and set it alight with a deft flick of the striker.

“Evenin’ m’lady. M’lord,” he said, skipping to the door and shutting it behind him. With a gusty sigh, Jon loosened the tongue of his swordbelt.

“A fine supper.”

“Yes, it was.” An awkward silence fell between them. Limned in the fire’s wash of gold, Jon looked much as he had last night. Young and devastatingly handsome, open and honest. It was a man’s honest lust in his eyes tempered by that soft, worshipful look. A knot rose in her throat. Jon closed the distance between them and tugged her into an embrace.

“Tolerate my lingering, my wonder. There are moments when I still don’t believe you’re real,” Jon whispered. Daenerys nestled against him with a sigh.

“How are you so wonderful?” she asked, cradling his face between her hands. A tilt of her chin caught his lips in a kiss sweet as summer. The passion kindled after the pleasant torture of their shared meal. His mouth tasted of beer and apples. A firm pinch on her buttocks made her squeak. Giggling, Daenerys retaliated by untying his trouser laces. She felt the hard shape of his cock trapped in its cruel leather prison.

“Wait . . . wait, Jon. We need to talk. We need to _talk_ ,” Daenerys said. Gods above, it was sorcery how he could rob her of her sense! Her husband’s husky laugh made heat pool between her thighs, that now-familiar liquid ache. Jon teased the shell of her ear with a grazing touch of his tongue. His warm breath fluttered her hair.

“We can talk after.”

“But--”

“After, my love. Please,” he crooned, worming one warm hand beneath her tunic to cup her breast. Daenerys gave in to his gentle tug towards the bed. Daenerys sat and bent to remove her boots. Jon stopped her, kneeling at her feet. Bracing his hands on her knees, he gave her a glancing, sensuous kiss. Daenerys chased the magic of his mouth as he pulled back. The only sound was the fire crackling to itself, and beyond, fainter thuds from taproom below.

“It’s been half the day, my love. I need to taste you. I need to love you,” he said. Daenerys nearly whimpered, remembering in vivid detail the heat and hunger of their interlude on the road. His strength stole her breath, his passion melted her. It was so sweet . . . and so dangerous. With gentle hands, he undressed her, peeling off trousers and tunic and smallclothes much as he had peeled away layers of mental armor. A determined vine growing into the mortar of her defenses.

Sinking her fingers into a handful of his hair, Daenerys pulled him close for a kiss. Jon’s low hum of approval vibrated against her lips. She lost herself in the give and take, the soft lash of tongue, the eager dance of lips. Her heartbeat thudded loud in her ears. Jon’s hands smoothed over her, back and buttocks, belly and breast. Gentle, but proprietary. _Mine. Mine_ , he said. Daenerys wormed her hand into his sagging trousers, reveling in the heat and hardness of his cock. Jon clutched her close, gasping as she pumped.

“Dany,” he wheezed. Fluid wept from the flushed head of his cock, Daenerys’ mouth watered at the sight. 

“You’re. Wearing. Too many. Clothes,” she said, punctuating each word with an open-mouthed kiss on his neck.

“Gods,” he said, shrugging out of his tunic and staggering out of his trousers and boots. Grinning, Daenerys danced out of his reach. Jon’s eyes flashed, and he dove, pinning her beneath him on the bed. Daenerys whimpered at the hot weight of his cock throbbing against her hip. She squirmed, breath catching in her throat as he pinned her wrists. A cold fingernail scraped up her spine. Khal Drogo’s shade. Hard, rough hands and the _pain_. Over and _over_ again. Jon’s voice coaxed her back.  

“Dany? Are you well, love?” the pucker of his brow endeared her. Daenerys craned her head to kiss him. Mm, yes that sweet magic of kissing him. Warm melting pleasure at the stroke of his tongue. Her Jon. _Husband, love_. The fear was a fading thought as yearning throbbed between her thighs.

“Jon . . .” she whispered. She drowned in the sweet dark grey of his eyes, warm with concern, soft with love.

“Are you--” he moved to release her wrists.

“No, leave it. I like it,” Daenerys purred, testing the warm clasp of his hands around her wrists. There was something delicious about being willingly restrained. His to do with what he wished. Mmm, _yes_. Jon’s smile was wicked as sin.

“I do as well. Very . . . _rousing_ ,” he said, barely grazing her throat with his tongue. Pleasure was a subtle shiver. Daenerys arched in his grip, yearning for the press of his weight. He held himself above with easy strength.

“Close your eyes,” Jon whispered. Words as soft as silk with the steel of command. Daenerys obeyed.

Warm amber patterns moved across her inner vision. Gods, he’d barely kissed her and her cunt _ached_ with yearning. It hadn’t taken her dear husband long to find his feet. Jon’s curls were a delicate touch, tickling as he craned his head down. Daenerys whimpered at the sudden suckle on her pert nipple. The cool flutter of his breath, the lap of his tongue. Sensations were sudden and all to brief. A kiss here, a nibble of teeth there. Leaving her wet and squirming. His name fell from her lips in a begging litany. Part of her felt shamed by her naked need, but the soul of her rejoiced. Love and pleasure were heady delights after so long alone.

Jon nudged her thighs apart with his knee. Daenerys clenched and rubbed against the hairy hardness of his thigh, desperate for friction. Jon growled.

“Gods, you’re so _wet_. Stay still or I will tie you down. Hear me?” he said. Daenerys nodded eagerly, gripping the upper edge of the mattress. Gods, if these were the bed games he wished to play, there may not be anything coherent left of her in a moon’s turn.

“Let me look at you, husband. _Please_ ,” she whispered. A moment of silence answered her, with the faint crackle of the fire.

“Open your eyes, my wonder,” he said. Kneeling naked between her thighs and washed in golden firelight, Jon stole her breath. A wild thing of strong muscle and darkfire eyes. The thrill of eye contact was heady. Jon licked his lips.

“Oh yes, I love those beautiful eyes. Watch me.” He settled between her thighs, draping her legs over his shoulders. Daenerys strained toward him, the puff of his breath almost too much to bear. The first lick over her pearl burst red stars behind her eyes. He uttered a snarl, eyes pools of black.

“ _Gods_ , yes,” he said, spreading her wider. He dove in.

Daenerys clung to handfuls of the mattress, her only anchor in the lashing, licking, maelstrom of pleasure. The tension gathered and she was flung high. He caught her, murmuring love words in that deep, northern-accented voice. His tongue and fingers lashed her into a frenzy, tears leaking from her eyes as he urged to one release and then another. Limp and trembling, she whimpered at the press of his weight, his hard cock nudging her entrance.

“Jon . . . Jon,” she said hoarsely, dragging him down for a kiss, tasting herself on his beard. Her hands smoothed over the sweat-damp strength of his back, cupping the curve of his arse. Jon grunted, framing her face between his hands, petting her temple with his thumbs.

“Sshh, sshh. Gods, you’re so fucking beautiful when you let go.”

“Your turn, my love. Come here,” Daenerys said, maddened by the feel of his cockhead teasing her. Jon flexed his hips, sheathing himself inside her with one smooth stroke.

“So good. You feel so _good_ ,” she whispered. Jon pressed his forehead to hers. A bashful smile touched kiss-reddened lips.

“I—I spilled on the sheets watching you. I don’t think--” The words roused Daenerys more than she cared to admit. She busied herself with petting his wild hair. What should she say to soothe his masculine pride?  

“D—Do you want to stop?” she asked. Jon stilled his restless half-thrusting.

“Are you sore? I can--”

“No. Not at all,” Daenerys said, draping a leg over his thigh to keep him close. The delicious pressure of his cock inside her made her toes curl, “You feel so good inside me.”

Jon hummed in agreement, taking up a slow, gentle rhythm. Lazily, they moved together, touching and kissing. The pleasure was sweet, without urgency. Sometime later, he slipped out. Jon laid his head on her chest.

“Mmm, this is nice,” he said, his voice thick with sleep. Daenerys’s heart gave a sharp lurch in her chest. Jon’s open, generous heart made her melt.

“Yes it is.” It wasn’t long until his breathing evened and he drifted off to sleep on her chest. Daenerys nestled happily in his embrace. Tomorrow’s troubles could wait.         


End file.
